


We Own the Sky

by Lila82



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Sons of Anarchy, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-16 13:31:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 40,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3490061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lila82/pseuds/Lila82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jake Griffin dies, Clarke goes home for the funeral and uncovers a secret she won’t let stay hidden.  What’s intended to be a short visit turns into a lengthy stay, especially when a former love comes back into the picture.  </p><p>Or the “Sons of Anarchy” AU where Bellamy’s in a motorcycle club and Clarke’s the high school girlfriend that got away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

* * *

 

_“We kill what we build because we own the sky.”_  


  


The sun shines the day Clarke puts her father in the ground. It shouldn’t come as a surprise – the funeral _is_ in California – but it still seems wrong. Her dad, the greatest man she’s ever known, is no longer among the living. There should be dark clouds blotting out the sun and thunder bolts splitting the sky. Pathetic fallacy, her 10th grade English teacher would have said, but when her plane lands in Redding, her heart is so heavy and there’s not a cloud in the sky. 

She’s groggy from the flight, six hours to San Francisco, and then another hour north. It takes a minute to find her bearings, to remember why she’s there. It’s been ten years since she’s seen the west coast and this wasn’t how she wanted to make her triumphant return. She’d never planned to return at all. But her dad’s dead and it’s the least she can do, throw dirt in his grave and say a benediction to his stone. He loved her, despite it all; he deserves a goodbye.

She rolls her shoulders and slides sunglasses over her eyes. They’re bloodshot, and the bags beneath them are deep enough to carry a lifetime’s worth of baggage, but they’re sharp enough to take in the dingy linoleum floor and worn leather chairs. The airport is the same as the day she left. It’s comforting, how it’s frozen in time, but depressing too. It’s been a decade – she shouldn’t be the only thing about this place that’s changed.

She lets a porter call her a taxi and gives him her mother’s address when the cab rolls up in front of the airport. It’s seen better days, with torn seats and a splotchy paint job, and the engine protests each time the driver presses the accelerator. She spends the drive assessing the damage and estimating the cost of engine parts. “I can get you a good deal,” she almost says, bites her tongue to keep from suggesting a local garage. It’s not her world any more, even if it’s still a part of her.

She caught an early flight and there are few cars on the road, but she hears it as they approach the exit for Arkadia, the guttural groan of a bike on the open road. She tells herself not to look, that it could be anyone, but she can’t keep her head from turning anymore than she could stop herself from coming back. She sees nothing but a flash of black and chrome but she knows those arms, those shoulders, the curve of that neck, and it makes something stutter inside her. He’s gone before she can blink and she falls against the seat, closes her eyes to keep from looking again. 

She sleeps the rest of the trip. There’s nothing like a blast from the past to knock a girl out.

 

* * *

 

The house is how she left it: one-story, ranch-style, painted white with gray trim. A simple house for simple people, a police chief and his doctor wife, the pig-tailed princess that grew up between its walls. She ignores the way her hands shake as she pays the cab driver. There’s not much to bring inside, just her purse and a Vera Bradley weekend bag, but they both feel impossibly heavy as she stands on the curb and stares up at the house that built her. 

She laughed with her mom in that house and danced to old records with her dad. She practiced softball in the backyard and piano in the den, learned to make pancakes on Sunday mornings while her mom slept in. The curtains are drawn in the window of her room, and she instinctively looks for the faulty latch that always squeaked loudly and foiled her plans. In that room, she studied for the exams that would get her out of this town, snuck through the window with kisses drying on her lips. It holds secrets, but memories too, and her eyes blur from remembering the last night she slept in her childhood bed. She’d been crying then too, because the choice was right but felt so wrong. Sometimes, she can still feel the anger coming off them in waves, all those people who wanted to hold her back when she ached to be free.

She takes a deep breath and walks the few steps to the front door. She rings the bell too, even though she has a key. She hasn’t seen her mother in ten years – she doesn’t want to be presumptuous and walk into the house uninvited. Abby’s still beautiful when she opens the door, but harder too, thin and sinewy, like she’s been whittled down to the most basic components of a human being. 

“Clarke!” she gasps, presses a hand to her chest in surprise. It’s a very un-Abbylike motion, but Clarke’s been gone a long time. Apparently her mom’s developed new mannerisms.

“Hi Mom.”

Abby snaps out of it and bolts through the door, wrapping her daughter in a tight hug. She smells like Obsession, like the scents of Clarke’s childhood, and she can’t help but return the hug. There are tears in Abby’s eyes when she lets go, and she frantically brushes them away, leaving dark streaks on her cheekbones. 

“I messed up your mascara.”

Abby glances at her hand and waves it away. “I don’t care. I’m so glad that you’re here.” She waits a beat. “I wasn’t sure that you would be.”

Clarke sets down the duffel bag. “I wasn’t sure either, but here I am.” She gestures at her jeans and button down. “Is there a place where I can change?”

“Of course. Your room hasn’t been touched.” Abby’s tone is formal, but she can’t quite hide the note of hurt, like she’s offended by Clarke’s question. And here she thought she was being polite by asking.

Clarke nods stiffly. “What time is the funeral?”

“Noon.” Abby glances at her robe and slippers. “I was just changing.” 

“Let’s meet down here in half an hour. We can ride over together?” 

Abby’s face relaxes. “I’d like that.” 

Clarke gives her a head start before following her up the stairs. She keeps her eyes down, studies her worn red Toms as she pads down the hall. She doesn’t want additional reminders of the man she’s burying today. Other than the closed curtains, her childhood bedroom is as she left it. The bulletin board is still covered with awards and certificates, and her bookshelf sags under the weight of various trophies. Her yearbooks are neatly stacked on the desk and a photo collage hangs over the bed. She stares at her younger self, a photo from senior week at the lake. The round face and sun-streaked hair had followed her into college, but that smile…she doesn’t think she’ll ever feel as infinite as she did that day. Because she remembers why she’s here, the things she has to do today, and seeing that girl makes her sick. She hasn’t been that version of Clarke Griffin in a long, long time.

She manages to shower and dry her hair without incident, put on makeup and slip into a plain black dress and simple leather pumps. Her only attempt at adornment is the strand of pearls her dad bought for her med school graduation. He’d flown out east by himself, with a sheepish grin and thin apology, but she hadn’t cared because the most important person in her life was there the day she accomplished her greatest dream. She wears the pearls in honor of him – to honor him – and her mother eyes them when she meets her in the garage. They’ve never spoken about why Abby stayed home on that important day, but there are few things they talk about that hold any weight.

“He spent a fortune on them,” Abby says and puts on her own sunglasses. They’re dark and wide and hide half her face. Clarke ignores her and slides into the passenger seat.

“He was proud of me.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Clarke can see Abby’s hands clamp around the steering wheel. Her voice is just as tight as she backs the car down the driveway. “We were both proud of you.”

“I’m not doing this today,” she says and turns to look out the window. Her childhood flashes by, the spot where she learned to ride her bike, her favorite house for trick-or-treating, the park where she practiced corner kicks. Her dad was there for all of it. 

For the first time in maybe ever, Abby says nothing and focuses her attention on the road. They don’t speak for the rest of the ride.

 

* * *

 

Wells is waiting when Abby pulls up in front of the funeral home. He’s taller and broader than when they were teenagers, and his posture is straighter thanks to a tour with the Marines, but Clarke still recognizes him, even in his dark, formal suit. 

He envelops her in his arms and she rests her cheek against his shoulder, breathes in the starchy wool of his jacket. He smiles at her when she pulls back, that warm, familiar smile of her youth, and it makes her more confident that she can get through this day. “I would have picked you up,” he says.

She ducks her head. “Until I got on the plane, I wasn’t sure that I’d actually come.” 

He tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Next time, call first.”

“Okay,” she promises, although it’s a lie. After she buries her father, she hopes to never lay eyes on this town again.

It’s cooler inside, but darker, so Clarke has to take off her sunglasses. Wells’ dad is standing with her mom, talking quietly with the staff. He looks older too, with a white-streaked beard and gray in his hair, and it suits him. He’s just started his second term as mayor and he wears the mantle well. 

“Clarke, I’m so sorry for your loss, ” Thelonious says and takes her hands. “Jake was very loved. He’ll be missed.”

“Thanks,” Clarke says. She tries to step away, but Jaha won’t let go. 

“I know the circumstances are tragic, but I’m glad you could make it home. It’s nice to see you again.” He smiles at her, the kind of smile that doesn’t quite reaches his eyes, and it takes her aback, how much that smile looks like her mother’s. 

“Thanks,” Clarke says again and this time he releases her hands. She smiles politely but watches him suspiciously as he goes with Abby.

Wells nudges her shoulder. “Ignore him. He’s a politician. Being smarmy is in his blood.” 

She nudges him back. “But not yours?”

He ignores her question and gestures to the receiving line where Abby and Jaha are already holding court. “We’d better get inside.” 

They avoid the line and take seats in the front row; Clarke keeps her gaze fixed on the worn carpet to keep from looking at the coffin. The _coffin_ , the box that holds her father’s body. His _body_ , a scrap of muscles and bones that used to be a living, breathing person. Wells asked her mother to keep the casket closed and to her relief, she actually complied. Her father’s death will always be an open wound, but she won’t let her last memory of him be of his corpse.

Clarke doesn’t remember the funeral well. Her mother gave the eulogy and she stood at Wells’ side to watch, dry-eyed, as they lowered Jake’s casket into the ground. There’s also a dim memory of throwing a handful of dirt into the hole.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” she mumbles to herself as she examines the buffet during the reception. There are more casseroles and deli platters than she can count, but she doesn’t have an appetite. It feels gross to eat when she just saw her father buried.

“Hey Griffin.” Raven sets a plate of cookies on the table. “I can’t stay, but I wanted to come by and express my condolences.” She’s wearing a gray dress and flats, but there’s an oil smear behind one ear. 

“Reyes!” Clarke blinks away her surprise. “Wow, hi.” An awkward silence follows. They’d tried to stay friends after high school, but time and distance proved to be too much. Or maybe Clarke was too much, too desperate to sever all ties to her life before. 

Raven smiles kindly. “I know the timing’s terrible, but would you want to get a drink tonight? We’ll celebrate your dad before, you know…” She trails off and smiles again. It remains unsaid that with Jake dead and buried, Clarke will only run again.

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

“You staying with your mom?” Clarke nods. “I’ll pick you up at nine.”

“Okay,” she responds but Raven’s already gone, weaving through the throng of people with a familiar feline grace. Clarke feels another pain of regret; it shouldn’t have her dad’s death to reunite with her friend.

With Raven gone, she also realizes how many people are in her house. It’s not every day that the chief of police dies in a fiery crash, and most of Arkadia has come to pay their respects. They’re crammed into the living room and kitchen, her teachers and doctors, coaches and neighbors. It’s suddenly very hot, impossible to breathe.

Wells appears. “Wanna get out of here?”

She uses what little energy she can muster to nod. “Take me away.”

He snags two beers on the way out and they sit on the back steps while she cries. Cries, like she did the night her mom called, but like she hasn’t cried since. Her lungs are clogged with pain and tears, but it’s still easier to breathe. She hadn’t realized how much she needed the release. When she pulls away, her nose is running and she’s soaked Well’s jacket, but she feels safe.

“I’m really glad that you’re here.”

He presses a chaste kiss to her temple. “Always will be.”

She curls into his side to drink her beer, like they’re kids again, sneaking peeks into the kitchen for fear that Jake will catch them. When she starts crying again, it feels less like grief and more like a tribute.

 

* * *

 

Raven honks her horn at 9:00 on the dot. In high school, she drove a beat up Cutlass that she inherited from her grandfather, but when she pulls away from the curb, it runs like a very different car. She chatters about the restoration work she did, the parts she salvaged and traded for, and manages to keep it up all the way to the bar.

They end up at Grounders and Clarke’s spine tenses from the amount of leather and denim filling the tables. She sees lots of kuttes, but none boasting a phoenix, and she’s loosened up some by the time that Raven finds them a booth.

“Tell me everything,” Raven says and flicks her ponytail over one shoulder. It’s something Clarke watched her do countless times in high school, and makes it easier to start the conversation.

Clarke tells her about college and med school in New York, her residency in Chicago, and the little Brooklyn walkup that’s currently home. She talks about being a pediatrician and her fellowship at a clinic in Canarsie. She talks about her boards’ trip to southeast Asia, makes Raven laugh when she tells a story of riding an elephant in Thailand. She avoids sharing anything of importance, the actual details that turned ten years away into a life, but Raven doesn’t offer up much either. 

“You work at Blake-Kane, don’t you?” 

Raven takes a huge sip of beer but can’t weasel her way out of the question. “How’d you guess?”

“I know you, Reyes. You’re loyal.”

“I’ve been there since graduation,” Raven confesses. “Worked my way up the ranks. I run the floor now.”

“Good for you.” Clarke hopes she sounds genuine. Despite her history with the men that haunt that body shop, they do good work. Raven should learn from the best.

“You know, he – ” Raven starts, but a shadow falls across their table and the words die in her mouth. Octavia Blake stands in front of them, arms crossed and scowling. She looks older, with braids in her dark hair and an intricate tattoo twined around her arm, but her eyes are the same: sharp, blue, missing nothing. 

“I figured you’d be back.”

“Hi Octavia.” An awkward silence fills the booth. “How are you?”

Octavia’s stare remains hard, but she drops her arms. “Fine. I’m sure Raven can fill you in.”

“We’re having a girls night,” Raven reminds her. “No need to kill my buzz.”

“You’re right,” Octavia says. She smiles suddenly and Clarke feels tension build at the base of her skull; she learned long ago not to trust that look on Octavia’s face. She turns her attention to Clarke. “We’re having a party at the clubhouse on Saturday. You should come.”

The invitation hangs in the air and even Raven looks surprised. “I don’t think – ”

“Nonsense. The guys will want to see you.” 

“But your brother – ”

“Is a big boy.” Octavia’s face settles and her smile begins to look more sincere. “You’ve been gone a long time, Clarke, but you’re still part of the club. That makes you family.”

It’s that word – family – that seals the deal. She remembers those days, misses those people, and she doesn’t know if she’ll see them again. It can’t hurt, to say goodbye one last time. 

“You’ll be there?” Clarke asks Raven. Her friend nods. “Okay. I’ll come.”

Octavia’s smile is all guile. “Great. Can’t wait.”

“What did I do?” Clarke buries her face in her hands. She came home to lay her father to rest, not rip open her past.

Raven pushes her beer across the table. “Drink up. You need this more than me.”

She finishes it in one long pull even though she’ll need more than beer to get through this.

 

* * *

 

Clarke has no idea what to wear. In high school, a short denim skirt and thin-strapped tank top were more than enough, but she’s not that girl anymore. She wears scrubs and _Crocs_ during the work day, jeans and t-shirts on weekends, and only brought three changes of clothes, but she hasn’t seen these people in a decade; she wants to make a good impression. She also wants to show them the girl she’s become, not the girl they knew, so she ignores Raven’s raised eyebrows when she climbs into the Cutlass. 

“Let’s go,” she says and stares straight ahead as Raven guns the engine. She can feel Abby watching her from the front window. They’ve done nothing but dance around each other the past two days, eating meals in silence and avoiding the space between them. Jaha stops by a lot, and it makes Clarke resentful and furious but helps fill the gaping hole that’s become her home.

“Everything okay?”

“My mom is driving me nuts.”

Raven smiles. “This is starting to sound familiar.” 

“I can’t slam my door and make it go away this time.” Jake had been the mediator then, refereeing the constant arguments between his wife and teenage daughter, but he’s not there to negotiate anymore. It’s just Clarke and Abby and ten years of resentment.

“I really am sorry about your dad. He was always good to me.”

“He was the best of us.” 

“Yeah, he was.” Jake Griffin always had a kind word or ready ear. He let Raven stay over when her mom’s boyfriend drank too much, or spent their rent money on drugs.

Clarke leans forward to fiddle with the radio until the Top 40 station comes on. It brings back memories too, singing in Raven’s car with the windows down, driving to the clubhouse on a Saturday night. 

_"We live a life like a video_  
_When the sun is always out and you never get old"_

She switches the radio off with a snap. High school’s over and ten years are gone. She didn’t need to lose her dad to know real life doesn’t have a happy ending.

 

* * *

 

Clarke regrets her fashion choices when she walks into the party; she should’ve bought a pair of combat boots or rimmed her eyes in kohl like Raven. Instead, she’s wearing a gauzy shirt and jeans and flats and looks like the doe-eyed virgin she was at fourteen.

She can feel Aurora’s eyes on her the moment she walks through the door. They’re the same as her daughter’s, but they pierce deeper, like they can see all the way inside Clarke. She looks mostly the same – tight jeans, stiletto boots, dark nails, platinum streaked hair – but her eyes are even harder when she sees what Raven brought with her. She nudges a young man with shaggy hair that Clarke realizes is Jasper. He’s grown six inches since high school and he’s covered in tattoos. She looks for a hint of welcome in his eyes, but he just nods at whatever Aurora says and darts away. Clarke keeps her gaze pinned straight ahead. She already knows where he’s going.

“Better get this over with,” she says and Raven squeezes her elbow for luck. “I’ll find you later.” Raven disappears into the crowd and Clarke takes a breath for courage. “Hi Aurora,” she says as the older woman approaches. 

“What are you doing here?”

“Octavia invited me.” Her shoulders strain from the effort of keeping them straight.

Aurora’s eyes narrow into slits. “My daughter is too kind for her own good. You’re not welcome here.”

Clarke sighs. “My ride isn’t ready to leave yet.”

“I’ll call you a cab.”

She’s out of moves, ready to bow her head in defeat, when a strong arm drops across her shoulders. “Welcome home, Princess.” Monty’s shaggy hair tickles her neck, but she slides into the protection of his lean, muscled body. What happened to the string bean she grew up with?

“Sweetheart, this isn’t your business.” 

“Boss’s orders.” Across the room, Marcus Kane and David Miller are watching them closely. 

Aurora looks murderous when she gets in Clarke’s face. “I can’t force you to leave, but I’ll sure as hell make it so you don’t want to stay.” Clarke’s tempted to tell her that her flight leaves the next afternoon, that in less than 24 hours, they’ll never have to see each other again, but lets her stalk off towards her husband and his friend. It’s petty, but she doesn’t mind letting Aurora seethe for a few hours. 

Monty sighs sympathetically. “Lady can hold a grudge.”

Clarke sighs in return. “She hated me even before I left.”

“Wanna say hi to the old gang?” He smiles at her kindly and Clarke remembers why she adored him so much when they were in school. He doesn’t judge or blame her for the ten years she was gone; he’s just happy to have her back. 

“I’d love that.”

There are so many familiar faces. Nate is no surprise – his dad is an original member – and Atom and Murphy were both prospects when Clarke left town, but she never pegged Jasper or Monty for the club life. But she remembers their latchkey childhoods, understands the structure they get here. Once they only had each other, but now they have brothers, perhaps not in blood but in something even stronger. While Jasper gives her a bear hug, the others are more reserved, nodding hellos and saying how sorry they were to hear about her dad. She smiles politely in return, thanks them for their well wishes. 

She’s drinking with Raven and Harper, letting them distract her with stories about their adventures in high school, when silence falls over the room. Four men stand in the doorway, and while they’re wearing leather and tattoos like all other males in the room, there’s a grinning skull stitched to the back of their kuttes.

“Reapers,” Harper whispers. “What the hell are they doing here?”

Kane greets them warmly and ushers them into the clubhouse. He holds up a beer and gestures for the others to do the same. “To new beginnings and new partnerships,” he yells and the crowd cheers in response. The newcomers head for the bar, except one, the tallest and broadest of them, with a shaved head and intricate tattoo inked into his cheek. He casually sidles up to Octavia and lets a hand rest low on her hip. When she smiles, it’s just for him.

“That tricky bitch.” Clarke’s annoyed, but also a little in awe. It was a very good plan.

Harper’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

Clarke nods at Octavia and her boyfriend groping each other in the corner. “She invited me here to distract from that!” Around the room, Skaikru brothers are narrowing their eyes and fondling their weapons. Clarke hopes Kane can hold it together. 

Raven laughs. “I’m impressed.” Her expression changes. “Oh, fuck.” 

Jasper’s earlier mission has been accomplished. Bellamy Blake is standing at center stage, glaring daggers across the room. There’s a girl with him, all high heels and spandex dress, but he only has eyes for Clarke. He looks different – his hair is longer, his muscles bigger, and he’s also gained a couple inches – but it’s his eyes that haven’t changed. They’re a dark, blazing black, filled with the same betrayal as the day she said goodbye. There’s something more too, something aching and pained, but the girl tugs on his arm and he notices what Octavia’s doing, and then he’s gone.

“You okay?” Raven asks. Clarke nods, grateful that she’s sitting down. Her legs feel like jelly and they’re not even supporting any weight. “I think we’ve had enough excitement for one night. You ready to go?” Clarke nods again. 

They leave without saying goodbye and are quiet on the short drive to the Griffin house. “Hey Clarke?” Raven calls through the open window. “For what it’s worth, I hope you’ll stick around. I miss having a real friend around here.”

“Thanks.” Raven waves and drives away, like they’re teenagers again, and it hits Clarke like a fist. It’s easy here, the people and places she used to know like the back of her hand. She misses it too, but that doesn’t mean she’ll stay.


	2. Chapter 2

 

* * *

 

Clarke finds the letter the next morning, tucked under her mattress like she’s still in school. It was a tradition between her and Jake, a bit of good luck before a big test or important game, but she hasn’t lived in this house for ten years. There’s no reason for her dad to leave a note. 

_"Dear Clarke,"_ it begins. _"If you’re reading this, I’m already gone…_ ” He talks about his hopes for her future and regrets about their past; he laments not working hard enough to repair the rift between her and Abby. It’s a lovely letter, but not what catches her attention. _…I’m already gone…_ , he’d written. They’re not the words of a man with time on his hands – they’re the words of a man that knows his time is running out. 

She sinks onto the bed, her half-packed duffel forgotten at her feet. “It was an accident,” her mother had said, voice trembling through the phone line. “A terrible accident. He died immediately, without pain.” 

Tears pool in Clarke’s eyes. It wasn’t an accident. _"…I’m already gone…"_ repeats through her head, like a record on the fritz, like that time she and her dad were dancing to The Doors and it skipped, _"Riders on the storm, storm, storm, storm…"_. She sees that flash of black and chrome, feels the metal bite into her wrists, and she knows she can’t leave. Not until she knows the truth, not until she’s sure. She can’t give back the ten years she was gone, but she can give her dad this. She can make sure his killer pays. 

Slowly, she folds the note and methodically unpacks the duffel. She takes a deep breath and goes downstairs to tell her mother.

 

* * *

 

“You’re going to miss your flight,” Abby says when she hears Clarke’s footsteps on the kitchen tile, and a crease forms between her eyebrows at her daughter’s lack of luggage. “Did your plans change?”

“I’m going to stay a couple weeks,” Clarke says. “I’ve been away too long.”

“Oh honey, I’m so glad.” She starts for a hug but Clarke takes a step back.

“Are you fucking Jaha again?” 

Abby visibly flinches. “It’s been ten years.”

“Answer the question.”

“No! He’s a friend, nothing more. He knows how to deal with these things.” Clarke remembers well, the summer they turned eleven and buried Wells’ mother. She’d died of cancer, a clean death without questions. It hadn’t hurt any less, but at least Wells had closure.

Clarke studies her mom’s face, but it’s absent of familiar tells. Her mouth doesn’t twitch, her eyes don’t shift. She believes her. “Okay.” 

“You’ll never forgive me, will you?”

“He was my _dad_ and you slept with his friend. Why should I ever forgive that?”

She storms out of the kitchen before Abby can answer and takes deep, sucking breaths once she’s in the yard. She didn’t think this through. Staying in Arkadia means being near her mom and Jaha, the betrayal that nearly tore her family apart. “Get it together, Griffin,” she says. “You’re not a kid anymore. You can do this.” She glances at the house, sees the drooping line of Abby’s shoulders through the window, and it steels her resolve. This isn’t about her mom. It’s about her dad and the debt she owes him, for loving her long after she abandoned him. She survived this town once. She can do it again.

 

* * *

 

She moves in with Raven. The house is small, but neat, and the guest room has its own bathroom. “You won’t even know I’m here,” she says but Raven waves her off and hands her a beer. 

“Dinner’s at seven. We can switch off who cooks.”

“I really appreciate this,” Clarke says and sinks into the couch. 

“Stay as long as you like.” Raven turns on the tv. “What are your feelings on ‘The Bachelor’?”

Clarke doesn’t care about which of the twenty-five women Chris chooses, but she likes how she feels sitting on Raven’s couch. On the other hand, she doesn’t like how it feels staying for free, so the next morning she stops by the hospital to inquire about jobs. She’s already requested a leave of absence from her fellowship in New York, and she hopes they’ll have something available at St. Finneus’. 

“Clarke Griffin?” She looks up from her application to see a blonde woman approaching. 

“Ms. Sydney?” Her high school biology teacher steps forward with a smile.

“You graduated, Clarke. Call me Diana.” 

“Well, hi Diana.”

She takes an empty seat. “I was sorry to hear about your father. He was a great man.”

“Thanks.” Clarke repeats the familiar refrain. “I appreciate it.”

“You’re applying for a job here? I heard you were at a hospital in New York.” 

Clarke puts down her pen. “I decided to stick around for a while. Once I was home, I realized how much I missed this place.” She even manages to smile. It’s not a lie – there are things about Arkadia that she’s happy to have back in her life.

“You know I’m the hospital administrator, right?” Clarke blinks. She had no idea that Diana had left teaching.

“Really?”

“Three years now. I miss the classroom, but wanted to try something different.” She pauses, studies Clarke with her shrewd gaze. It’s a bit like looking at Octavia; there’s always something more churning behind her eyes. “We have an open spot in Peds. You should take it.” 

Clarke taps the clipboard. “I thought the same thing.” 

“It’s yours.”

“That’s not how things work.” 

Diana lays a hand over hers, stares at her with those bright, cunning eyes. “Trust me on this.” 

“Okay...” 

“We’ll be in touch.” Diana takes the half-filled application and smiles. 

Clarke feels a little nauseous on the walk to her car. Her _dad’s_ car. It was what she hated about this town, the backroom deals and violence and lies, but she has a mission. She needs a reason to stay, a means of supporting herself, and Diana’s offering a way in. She doesn’t let herself question Diana’s motives, her eagerness to have Clarke join her staff; it’s not her problem. She shoves aside her reservations and focuses on what she’s accomplished: she has a job, an income, a cover story. She heads to Raven’s and naps the afternoon away. She’s betrayed her morals enough for one day.

 

* * *

 

Clarke calls Lexa that night, huddled on the back step and talking in low tones so she can’t be heard inside. She probably trusts Raven her life, but she’s not ready to share her secrets.

Lexa picks up on the third ring. “Look who’s finally returning my calls.” She’s left seven texts and messages and sounds annoyed to hear from Clarke.

“Hey Lex.”

The annoyance fades from her voice. “How are you?”

“I need a favor.”

The annoyance is back. “Guess that answers my question. How can I be of service?” She phrases it like a joke, but Clarke fails to hear any actual humor.

“I’m staying in Arkadia for a bit and hoping you can send my stuff.”

“What about your job?” 

“I’m taking a leave of absence.”

“Clarke, I don’t understand. You said you’d never go back there and now you’re staying? What’s going on?”

She pauses, tries to figure out how to explain without giving too much away. “Just some stuff with my dad.”

“I’ll get on the next flight – ”

“No. I need to do this on my own. Just…can you send my things?” There’s no response. “Lex, you there?”

“I guess I should be happy that you finally committed to something.” 

Clarke sighs. She’d been trying to avoid the subject, but it’s rich, since Lexa had been the hold out. _“It’s unprofessional,” she’d said. “I’m your superior,” she’d protested_. But she’d given in and Clarke had loved her for as long as she could. They’re still friends, sort of, but this might be the deciding blow.

“Lexa,” she starts but her ex cuts her off. 

“I asked you to marry me and you said you needed time. Time’s up. I’ll send your clothes, but that’s it. I’m done waiting for you.”

“I’ll text you the address. Send the bill for the shipping. Lex, I’m – ”

The call ends with a dial tone and Clarke stares a moment at the phone in her hand. She can’t give Lexa what she wants but this isn’t how she thought it would end. She thinks about the hate in Bellamy’s eyes that night at the clubhouse, wonders when she became the girl to leave a trail of angry exes in her wake.

 

* * *

 

She sees him again a week later. Even though she’s working Peds, she still has to pay her dues, and starts with an overnight shift. The hospital is quiet, and she’s three-fourths done with her crossword puzzle when he comes in.

It’s Nate that taps her on the shoulder. There’s blood on his shirt and a bruise forming beneath one eye, but he’s more concerned about what’s happening in exam room three. “Princess, we need your help.” 

She startles at the nickname. It felt like a compliment when Monty said it the other night, but from Nate, it’s more like an insult. His loyalty to his brothers runs deep. “Check in with the on-call nurse and – ”

“This isn’t a choice.” His jaw is taut and his eyes are wide with worry and Clarke knows it’s a losing battle. He’s three times her size and has two other guys with him. She doesn’t think he’ll hurt her, but he can certainly intimidate her into doing his bidding.

“What now?” She follows him down the hall to find Bellamy sitting on the exam table, bleeding profusely from a cut along his ribs. 

Bellamy’s lip curls. “No.”

Nate sighs. “It’s her or Jaha Jr.”

He stares at the wall. “Make it quick.”

To her disappointment, Nate leaves them alone and the resulting silence could swallow her whole. Bellamy fumes, despite the amount of blood he’s leaking, and Clarke’s throat feels achingly dry. This wasn’t what she signed up for when she accepted Diana’s offer. But it’s Bellamy who’s bleeding, Bellamy who’s in pain, and she knows she won’t turn him away.

“I’ll do my best.” He continues staring over her shoulder so he doesn’t have to look at her.

The cut is relatively clean and requires only a single row of stitches. Clarke works in silence, concentrates on keeping her sutures neat and tight. He’s just a patient, just a body with a problem that needs fixing.

“Must be nice to have your kingdom back, Princess.” They’re the first words he’s said to her in ten years.

“Just doing my job.” She’s proud of how her voice doesn’t shake.

“Couldn’t make it in the big city so you came crawling back to the sticks?” 

Her hands still and she puts down the scissors. “We have our differences, Bellamy, but I don’t remember you being mean.”

“You don’t know me anymore.” His eyes are filled with that deep, dark burning, so different from the laughter of their youth. _“This is on you, Princess,”_ his eyes say. _“You’re the one that left me.”_

“You’re right. I don’t.” She slaps a bandage over the wound. “Come back in a week and I’ll remove the stitches.”

He tugs down his shirt and hops off the table. “Later, Clarke.”

She doesn’t hear the door slam on the way out. She doesn’t hear anything over her rapidly beating heart.

 

* * *

 

He shows up at Raven’s the next morning. It’s almost ten, but she’s exhausted from thirty-six hours of call and knows she looks a fright. She glares at Bellamy through the mess of her uncombed hair. 

“What?”

“Good morning to you too.” His grin is slow and sensual and she grips the doorjamb to keep from thinking about it. “Can I come in?”

“Whatever.” He follows her into Raven’s kitchen, accepts the cup of coffee she offers him. She takes a hearty sip and feels some of the fog lift. 

“Got any sugar?” She nods, opens a cupboard and hands him the box. As she watches him dump three packets into his mug, she realizes they’ve never drunk coffee together. They were kids when she knew him; back then, he’d survived on cigarettes and beer.

“Why are you here, Bellamy?”

“I realized I never said thank you for stitching me up.”

“It’s my job,” she reminds him. 

He looks at her knowingly. “You took an oath to do no harm, not to lie to the police.” 

She shrugs to mask the tightness in her chest. She doesn’t want to think about that part. “I didn’t see a reason to report it.”

“Either way, I appreciate it. I checked our records and your car’s due for an oil change. Come by Blake-Kane. We’ll do it for free.” 

“That’s not necessary – ”

“I insist.” He sets aside his mug. “Thanks for the coffee.”

The kitchen feels too big when he lets himself out, like all the energy’s been sucked out of the room. She’d forgotten the rush of simply being near him. It’s been ten years but her skin still tingles from sharing his air.

 

* * *

 

She doesn’t plan on taking the car to Blake-Kane, but the “change oil” light is driving her insane, so she pulls into the parking lot despite her better judgment. 

Jasper comes out to meet her. “Bellamy said to expect you. Give us twenty minutes and you’ll be good to go.”

She smiles. “Thanks, Jay.” He blushes slightly at the old nickname and practically skips to the garage. 

Aurora stares at her through the office window. Clarke takes a seat at the picnic table and pretends to flip through a chart. She’s fooling no one. Ten minutes later, Aurora’s boots click angrily against the pavement. “I thought I made myself clear.”

Clarke closes the chart and shifts her sunglasses over her eyes. “I’m just getting my car fixed.”

“There are other garages in Arkadia.”

“I wanted the best.”

“I don’t care what you want. My business, and my son, are off-limits.”

It’s like they’ve fallen ten years into the past, but Clarke’s no longer a scared teenager. She pushes to her feet so she’s eye to eye with the other woman. “I’ve changed, Aurora. I’m not that kid you can boss around anymore.” Jasper gestures from across the yard. “My car’s ready. Thanks for the chat.” She tries to slip past her, but Aurora yanks up Clarke’s t-shirt to expose the phoenix inked into the skin of her lower back.

“Guess there are some things you can’t change.”

Clarke twists out of her grasp, tugging the shirt into place. Aurora is smirking at her, but Clarke’s exhausted from this fight. Getting out of Arkadia wasn’t a choice, no matter that it broke Bellamy’s heart. “I leave it there so I remember all that shit’s behind me.” 

“I forgot how clever you can be. This is your last warning.” 

She grits her teeth to keep from saying something she’ll regret and storms across the lot to Jasper, grabs the keys out of his hand, and guns the engine. She can see Aurora in the rearview mirror, triumph splashed all over her face. Clarke eases her grip on the wheel, reminds herself why she’s really in Arkadia. Aurora Kane is just a hitch in her plan; she can face her over and over if it means doing right by her father.

 

* * *

 

“How’s your mom?” Wells asks over dinner that night. 

“Wouldn’t know.” She’s careful to avoid his eyes. In the time she’s been back, she’s done everything in her power to avoid her mother. She even schedules her shifts on days Abby doesn’t have surgery.

He tries again. “I heard you were at Blake-Kane today.” She spears a piece of chicken and shoves it in her mouth. “Clarke?”

“I heard you.” She pushes aside her salad and meets Wells’ even gaze. “I was just getting my oil changed.”

He watches her calmly. “There are other garages in Arkadia.”

In her lap, her fingers clasp painfully. The last thing she needs is a repeat of her conversation with Aurora. “Jasper did it as a welcome home present.” Wells keeps watching her. “That’s it, really.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t push, but Clarke knows the conversation isn’t over.

“It’s not about Bellamy.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“But you thought it.”

His blank expression finally breaks. “Clarke, he got you arrested. You almost lost your scholarship because of him.”

Technically, they got arrested _together_ , but she doesn’t feel like dredging up the past by correcting him. “I know. Trust me, I know.” As if she could ever forget the disappointment in her dad’s eyes when a deputy had called him to the station in the middle of the night to bail his daughter out of jail. “Actually, I need a favor.”

Wells shakes his head. “Of course you do.”

“My dad…do you know what he was investigating when he was killed?”

His smile falls. “Clarke, it was an accident.”

She manages to keep her face impassive. “Sure. But do you know?” She watches him fidget in his chair, find the words to let her down easy. “Wells, this is important to me. I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate.”

He doesn’t look happy about it, but doesn’t turn her down either. “ I don’t know, but I can find out.”

Clarke reaches across the table to squeeze his hand. “I owe you.” 

Wells smiles uneasily. “They say you should let sleeping dogs lie.” 

“I think it’s better to live with your eyes open.” 

“There’s a first time for everything.”

“Not this time.” She takes a bite of salad, asks about his day. He takes the bait, talks about being a police officer in a small town and the mound of paperwork on his desk. Clarke tells him about her patients, the little boy whose leg she splinted the other day and the toddler whose chin she sewed back together, and they fall into to the easy rhythm she thought she lost when she left town. It’s the best meal she’s had in a long time.

 

* * *

 

Octavia drives her to the garage to take out Bellamy’s stitches. She honks the horn twice and Clarke finds her drumming her fingers on the steering wheel when she comes out to investigate.

“Get in.” She’s staring with those piercing blue eyes, but Clarke’s had a long day – she doesn’t have the energy to argue. 

“I could have driven myself,” she says, braves Octavia’s wrath to turn down the radio. 

Octavia shrugs. “You did Bellamy a favor. Just my way of saying thanks.” 

Clarke thinks she probably _is_ grateful that her brother didn’t bleed out in the clubhouse, but there’s more to this trip than Octavia’s letting on. “You’re welcome.”

“You need to stay away from him.”

And there it is, the real reason Octavia instigated the car ride from hell. “I didn’t come back for him, O.” 

Octavia recoils, fingers tightening around the steering wheel, her mouth setting into an angry line. “We’re not friends anymore. You don’t get to call me that.”

Clarke feels her own flare of anger. She’s sick of the abuse from the Blake women, the accusation in their eyes. She got out and made a better life for herself, regrets that Bellamy got hurt in the process, but she didn’t kill anyone. She doesn’t know where the bodies are buried. “Fuck you! I just went to college!”

Octavia deflates a little, her posture loosening as she bends over the wheel. “It took him a long time to get over you. I don’t want to see him go through that again.”

“We’re not getting back together.” 

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

The rest of the ride is spent in silence and Clarke opens her door the moment they pull up at the garage. She couldn’t spend another moment in that car – the silence was just as nasty as Octavia’s anger. 

Even though it’s midday, the clubhouse is full of people. Atom is behind the bar and Monty’s hunched over a laptop and Murphy’s playing pool with Denby when she steps through the door.

“Hey Clarke,” Monty calls without looking up. 

“How’d you know it was me?” 

He points at a white box on the ceiling. “It’s the 21st century. There are cameras everywhere.” 

“Good to know.” She shifts her weight. “Where’s Bellamy? I’m here to take out his stitches.”

The club does an expert job of examining the floor before Monty sighs heavily. “He’s in the apartment.”

“Would you mind getting him?” She forces herself to meet Atom’s eyes. “I’ll wait.”

He also sighs, but throws down the bar rag and heads for the back. It’s ten minutes before Bellamy appears, his hair still damp from a shower. “Hey Princess,” he drawls and stretches his arms over his head to expose the torn and mangled flesh of his abdomen. 

Clarke drops to her knees to get a better look. “You’re healing well,” she says, gently examines the wound. It will scar but there’s no sign of infection. 

Someone snorts and she realizes how it looks. She’s on her knees, staring up at Bellamy while he stares down at her from beneath dark, laughing eyes. She’s eye level with his dick, her mouth open and wide as she realizes what’s happening.

“Shut up, Murphy,” she snaps. Bellamy extends a hand and she takes it, lets him pull her to her feet. “You ready?” 

“Let’s do this.” 

He guides her to the bedroom, his hand large and warm around hers, like they’re teenagers again and he looked at her like she was made of starlight. The room is a mess, but there are touches that scream Bellamy: his father’s rings on the desk, the history books on the shelf, a photo of Octavia and Aurora by the bed. “Where should I sit?” he asks.

“The bed’s fine.” She rummages in her bag for the supplies. She tells herself not to be nervous. They’re just stitches, he’s just Bellamy. _Bellamy_. Of course she’s uncomfortable. 

“This okay?” He’s removed his shirt and the motion has mussed his hair. She tightens her grip on the scissors to keep from fixing it.

“Fine.” She sits across from him in the desk chair and starts to clean the wound.

“I heard you moved in with Reyes.” 

“Yup. It’s like a permanent sleepover. It’s great.” He laughs, a low sound that makes her face feel warm. “Why are you staying at the clubhouse?”

He groans. “O’s crashing at my place, which was fine when it was just her, but then the Reaper moved in and…Kane’s trying something out. I’m trying to keep the peace.”

She puts down the gauze and starts on the stitches. “That took me by surprise too. I never thought I’d see a Son and a Reaper drinking together.”

“Welcome to the new age. Marcus thinks we can make more working together than…you know…”

Clarke nods, focuses on ripping stitches. It’s the most Bellamy’s told her about his outside life, but she put two and two together a long time ago. Guns. Drugs. Women. It’s better that she doesn’t know. He shifts uncomfortably and she lays a hand on his bare shoulder to steady him. His skin is warm, muscles firm, and he tenses under hand but doesn’t push her away. “It’s okay,” she says in a ragged whisper. “I’m almost done.”

She’s still touching him when she rips open the last stitch and only lets go to press a bandage over the scar. “All done,” she says, drops her hands into her lap to keep from tracing the outline of his ribs. He has a magnificent body, broad shoulders and lean hips and corrugated muscles running the length of his torso. He reminds her of the statues she saw in Italy during her study abroad, only he’s real, hot and pulsing under her gaze. 

“Thanks, Princess,” he says, his voice low and raspy. She’s frozen in place, staring into those deep, dark eyes. There’s no reason to stay but she can’t tear herself away. 

It’s the knock that breaks the spell and Clarke jumps to her feet while Bellamy reaches for his shirt. Nate looks apologetic. “Church in thirty.”

“I’ll be there.”

This time, she can’t stop from smoothing down his hair. “That’s better.”

He smiles and it still steals her breath. “Need a lift home?”

Somehow, she manages to nod, to put one foot in front of the other so she can follow him into the late afternoon sun and swing behind him on the bike. She hasn’t been on a motorcycle in years, but the helmet doesn’t feel heavy as it settles over her hair, and she instinctively wraps her arms around his waist. Her thighs bracket his and she clings to him as he turns onto the road, feels the wind in her hair and tears in her eyes and strong, solid muscles pressing against her breasts. She feels like she did at sixteen, like the highway would never end, like she could hold tight to Bellamy and follow him into eternity.

But she’s not sixteen and this is only a ride home, and he carefully parks the bike in front of Raven’s house. She hops off and hands him the helmet, but he grabs her wrist before she can step on the sidewalk. She spins into the wheel casing and it digs into her leg, but she doesn’t notice, not when he’s so close.

“I’m glad you came back,” he says softly. “Anything you need, the club’s at your disposal.”

“Thanks.” She waits a beat, but he doesn’t say anything, and she can’t read his eyes in the darkening twilight. He smiles again, kicks the bike into gear, and roars away. 

Raven finds her on the sidewalk, watching Bellamy’s taillights disappear into the night. “Rough day?” she asks, casually throws an arm around Clarke’s shoulders.

“You don’t know the half of it.” 

Raven steers them to the front door. “Come tell me about it. I have wine and Netflix.”

She follows Raven inside and collapses on the couch, drinks almost an entire bottle of chardonnay on her own, but it does little to dull the noise in her head. It’s been ten years, but she can’t stop thinking about Bellamy’s smile or the messy hair that’s always a little too long, or the way his body felt under her hands. She hears his voice in her ear and the promises they made, feels the burn of his anger when she got on that plane. She remembers the boy he was, sees the man he is today, and she wakes with a pounding headache and the numbing realization that she’ll always be a little bit in love with Bellamy Blake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone, thank you for supporting this experiment! I’m totally loving writing a modern fic, but especially writing this fandom in a different ‘verse. Please be patient with my portrayal of Aurora and Octavia – they will have actual character development in later chapters. And finally, because my schedule just got jam-packed, the update is going up earlier than expected. Enjoy.


	3. Chapter 3

 

* * *

 

Wells comes through, although it takes a few days to locate the files. It had been a process, tracking down the key and locating the safe, and Clarke thinks all the secrecy is the reason he’s starting to believe her. Jake wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of hiding his investigation if there wasn’t something to fear. It’s reassuring to know she was on the right track, but equally devastating – what kind of monsters would want her father dead? She stares at the files for a long time before finding the nerve to open one. 

“Organ trafficking? In Arkadia?”

“We’re not so far from Asia,” Wells reminds her. “There’s a lot of supply in places like the Philippines.”

She turns back to her dad’s notes. “It says here that St. Finneus’ had a lot of unauthorized deliveries. All late at night, all with the same guard working security. Do you think the hospital’s a front for illegal organ donations?”

Wells reaches for the file. “Not the hospital, but some of the staff might be in on it.” Clarke smiles triumphantly and he corrects himself. “On the _slight_ chance that it’s more than a coincidence.”

“Wells,” she says softly. “My dad wasn’t randomly hit by a semi. It wasn’t an accident. I know there’s more to this story.” She doesn’t care that she’s pleading – she gave up her old life for this, ruined any chance of fixing things with Lexa – she won’t stop until she has all the answers.

“If – _if_ – what you’re saying is true, your dad was murdered because of it. We need to be careful in how we pursue an investigation. After my mom died, you became my family. My only family. I can’t lose you again.”

Clarke nods. The affair should have ripped them apart, but it only brought them closer. She trusts him with her life and everything else. “We’ll do it your way.”

“Promise?” He looks at her doubtfully.

“Promise. You call the shots.” 

“Agreed – might never happen again.” She swats him lightly, but he ducks out of her reach and scoops up the files. “I’ll be in touch.”

While Wells follows Jake’s leads, Clarke chases her own. She checks hospital records and security logs and keeps a look out for suspicious individuals. She searches for locks without keys or rooms that aren’t on the map. She makes casual conversation with lunch ladies and nurses, parking attendants and lab techs. If anyone knows something, they’re not talking. 

Then, one morning, strictly by chance, she sees a security guard named Ridley scurry out of Diana’s office. She might have thought nothing of it, if not for the way his eyes shifted nervously as he darted down the hall. It triggers something – a security guard meeting with the hospital administrator? – and Clarke realizes this is the break she’s been waiting for. Her suspicious are further confirmed when Diana opens the door and sees her waiting, looking both annoyed and uneasy, quickly pasting on a tense smile. “Clarke. You’re early.” 

She pastes on her own dopey smile. “Early is on time, on time is late, and late is unacceptable!” She’s aware of how much she sounds like a huge dork, but it’s Clarke from freshman biology, the version of Clarke that Diana first knew, and she lets down her guard enough to usher her former student into the office. 

Clarke manages to keep it together during the meeting, sticking to her talking points about a conference she wants to attend in San Francisco, and giving Diana no reason to question her motives. She chirps a grateful thanks on her way out, and Diana’s smile is tired, but genuine. She knows she’s pushing her luck, but she can’t help calling Monty and asking him to hack the hospital computer system during her lunch hour. 

“Can’t you go any faster?” She peers over her shoulder, even though she saw Diana get in an elevator five minutes earlier.

“You can’t rush perfection,” Monty says, fingers clacking furiously over the keyboard. He’s taken off his kutte, but there’s no hiding the club tattoos running down his forearms. Clarke glances around nervously. “One more minute…finished!” He transfers the files and hands her a memory stick. “My work is done.”

“I owe you.”

He shrugs and grabs his kutte from the back of her chair. “You can stitch me up some time.”

“I’d rather you keep all your parts.” She sticks her head into the hallway. All clear. “Let’s keep this between us, okay?” 

“I’ll do my best.” He drops a quick kiss on her cheek before disappearing down the corridor.

His best isn’t good enough, because when the day is done, she finds Bellamy in the parking lot, hips resting against her driver’s side door. “Dammit, Monty,” she mutters.

He straightens as she approaches, the white lettering of his VP patch a bright white spot against the black leather of his kutte. He looks intimidating and determined and the fire in his eyes ignites sparks low in her belly. She crosses her arms and lifts her chin to face the Skaikru prince.

“Whatever you’re doing, it needs to stop.”

“It’s none of your business.”

He frowns, takes a step forward to get in her space. “It is when you involve my club. What’s going on, Clarke?” 

She searches for a comeback, but she’s suddenly exhausted by the tough girl act, by the constant conflict between them. She wants to tell him everything, like the night she’d shown up at his house, bawling and gasping for breath, because she’d caught her mom in bed with her best friend’s dad and her world was falling apart. He’d held her, held her in his arms so she could hear the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek. She aches for him to do it again. But they’re not those people anymore and this is her problem, her burden to bear. It’s bad enough that she dragged Wells and Monty into her business. Bellamy doesn’t owe her anything and she doesn’t want to ask for favors from him.

She shrugs and digs in her purse for her keys. “Just some stuff with my dad. Don’t worry your pretty head about it.”

He rolls his eyes, runs a hand through his unruly hair. “I’m more concerned about your pretty head.”

“I got this, Bellamy. Really.”

He nods briskly, takes a step back, then changes his mind. “Is that why you stayed? Because of this “stuff” with your dad?” 

“Did you think I came back for you?” She doesn’t mean it as an insult, but he takes it as one anyway, and she watches his face close up and his jaw tense. She braces herself for whatever comes next.

“Nah, Princess,” he sneers. “You made it real clear that I’m not on the list of things worth caring about.”

“I went to college, Bellamy. You encouraged me to go!” Her voice is shrill with anger. She’s had enough of the Blakes blaming her for wanting more for herself.

“We agreed that you’d leave town,” he says quietly, ducks his head but not before she sees the longing in his eyes. “Not that you’d leave me.” 

She opens her mouth, but no words come out. That _was_ the plan. She’d go to college, spend summers in Arkadia, move back and marry him. She’d help Aurora in the office and raise Blake babies and turn a blind eye to the club. They’d had it all figured out until her plans changed. There was her mom and the arrest and how this place made it hard to breathe, and she’d left him before she lost herself. There’s nothing she can say that will heal that betrayal.

“Never mind,” he says when she doesn’t respond, yanks on his helmet and throws a leg over the bike. “Whatever game you’re playing, leave Monty out of it.”

He guns the engine and leaves her behind in a cloud of dust. It feels a little like having her heart ripped from her chest, and it only hurts more, knowing that ten years ago, she did the same to him.

 

* * *

 

Raven’s home when Clarke pulls up to the house, and there’s a familiar jeep parked in the driveway. She stares at it a long while, foot hovering over the accelerator as she decides whether or not to run. She doesn’t need another confrontation today, but there’s only so long she can avoid her mother. Ignoring the dull throb at the base of her skull, she pulls the keys out the ignition and smoothes down her hair. Keeping up appearances has always been important to Abby.

She finds them drinking wine and giggling like schoolgirls on the couch. Raven had mentioned that they’d gotten close after Abby fixed a herniated disk in her back, but Clarke didn’t think they’d bring their friendship to her home. 

“Hi Ladies,” she snaps. So much for playing in it cool.

Raven looks incredibly guilty as she puts down her glass. “Hey Clarke!”

“Hi Honey.” Abby watches her with a cool, steady gaze.

The awkwardness hangs in the air and Raven’s eyes flick from mother to daughter before she bows out. “I’ll be…yeah…good luck.” She takes her wine glass with her and then it’s just Clarke and Abby alone in the living room.

“Why don’t you sit down?” Abby takes a healthy sip of wine. “Don’t blame Raven. She only let me in. I insisted on staying.”

Clarke sits on the far end of the couch and crosses her arms. “Why are you here?”

“You’re my daughter. I wanted to see you.”

“I thought I made it clear that I have no interest in seeing you.”

Abby’s face twists. “You know what? I give up. I made a terrible mistake, and I’ve been paying for it every day since, but your dad forgave me. It’s time you forgive me too.” She jerks to her feet and grabs her purse. “When you’re ready to be my daughter again, you know where to find me.”

She shudders as the door slams behind Abby, and Raven pokes her head in. “Everything okay?”

Clarke downs Abby’s leftover wine. “Wanna do something stupid?”

Raven laughs and lets her hair down from its ponytail. “Aww, girl, stupid’s my middle name.”

Her middle name is actually Esmeralda, but she does an excellent job of playing wing woman at Grounders. “Wanna talk about it?

“No.”

“Can I guess?”

“No.” 

“Wanna drink more?” 

Clarke pushes her empty glass across the table. “It’s like you read my mind.” 

Raven sighs. “Next round’s on me.”

There are some college kids in the bar tonight, probably home on vacation, and Clarke can’t stop watching them. It’s too dark to read the school names stitched on their hoodies, but there’s no hiding how well they blend into this world. For the first time in ten years, she questions her choices. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, second-guessing her decision to leave, and she doesn’t like it. All those years away from her family and friends, it was the one thing believed to be true, that she was right to go, right to cut off the only world she knew, right to fight for a fresh start. But seeing these kids’ laughing faces, within the Arkadia city limits, makes her wonder what might have been. What if college had been just a brief time out? What if she’d trained in San Francisco? What if she’d never told Bellamy that he wasn’t enough? What if she’d been there to tell her dad to stop?

She’s crying when Raven comes back with the beer, gulping sobs that make her chest tight and her vision blur. “Clarke? Oh, baby. Let’s get you home.”

The town flashes by on the ride home. They drive past the high school and local pool, the flower shop where Bellamy bought her prom corsage, the movie theater where they had their first date. She presses a hand to her chest, tries to control her breathing. She’s still crying when Raven leads her to the couch and drapes a blanket over her shoulders, still crying when she curls into a ball, still crying when a familiar rumble sounds outside the house.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Raven cries, wringing her hands in concern. Clarke can barely see her through the tears. 

“I got this,” Bellamy says, crouches down in front of the couch. 

“Okay.” Raven sounds reluctant to leave. “I’ll be in my room if you need me.”

Bellamy brushes Clarke’s hair from her face. “You don’t need to say anything. Just let it out.” They stay in place for long minutes, his fingers gentle on her brow, his voice tender in her ear. “I’m here, Princess, I’m here.” When she can breathe again, her eyes are red and swollen and he’s still a little blurry, but his smile is still blinding. “Feel better?”

She shakes her head but manages to sit up. “A little.” She rubs her neck. “My head hurts.”

“You’ve looked better too.” He hands her a tissue so she can wipe her nose. “We should talk about it.”

She curls the tissue into a ball. “My dad just died.”

“And your free pass is over.” He’s watching her with that piercing gaze he inherited from his mother, and she knows, like she did at seventeen, that there’s no walking away from this. “I’ll ask again: what’s going on?”

“I don’t think my dad’s death was an accident,” she blurts out, waits for him to laugh, but he keeps watching her with those clear, direct eyes. “I found out after the funeral and decided to stay until I learn the truth.”

“I’ll help,” he says immediately.

“No, I don’t want anyone else involved – ” 

“Except Monty?”

“ – except Monty,” she says sheepishly. “He’s the only hacker I know.”

He slides next to her on the couch, slips a hand under her shirt and pulls up the hem, traces the outline of her tattoo with one calloused finger. “You wear our mark, you’re one of us.” He taps her chin, tilts her head so she meets his gaze. “The club is family. You help your family.”

Bellamy’s close, so close, so she can see the sparks of gold in his eyes, and she has the urge to kiss him, to feel the warmth of his mouth against hers, but it’s not about what she wants – it’s about doing right by her dad. She can’t complicate her mission by getting mixed up with him. She pulls away and he lets her.

“Okay,” she agrees, surprised by the steadiness in her voice. Inside, she’s still shaking.

“Okay.” He smiles and she wants to kiss him again. “Come by tomorrow.”

“I have work tomorrow.”

“Come by after work. Bring your files. I’ll get the guys on it.”

“Okay.” She follows him to the door. “How about seven?” 

“Looking forward to it.” He drops a kiss to her cheek. “Night, Princess.” She watches him saunter to his bike.

Raven comes up behind her and rests her chin on her shoulder. “That man gets better looking with age.”

She can’t help but laugh. “Shut up.”

“Just saying.” She nudges Clarke out of the way to shut the door. “What’s going on with you two?”

“Why don’t you tell me? You’re the one that called him.”

Raven sighs and slumps against the door. “You were approaching catatonic, Griffin. It was him or your mother.”

Clarke groans. “Nothing’s going on with us. He’s just helping me with something.” 

“Uh huh.” 

“I’m serious,” she insists.

“That’s what you said in high school _“My car broke down! He’s just giving me a ride home.”_ I know you, Griffin. You wanted in his pants. Still do.” She disappears into the living room. 

Clarke chases after her. “I was sixteen!” Raven makes a kissing noise, so she smacks her with a pillow, and then Raven smacks her back, and then they’re rolling on the couch with laughter, clutching their sides because it hurts. Clarke hopes it lasts forever. She’d forgotten how good it feels to laugh.

 

* * *

 

The next night, she spends ten minutes in the employee bathroom fixing her hair. Free of east coast humidity, it’s struggling to curl or hold body, and it hangs limp around her face. She tries a ponytail and a braid before settling on the half-up style she used to wear in high school. It’s still flattering and takes years off her face, makes her look a bit like the girl she was back then. It was the hairdo, in combo with being the police chief’s daughter, that inspired the nickname, and she tucks a loose wave behind her ear, prepares to be the princess again.

It’s closer to eight when she gets to the clubhouse and it’s packed with people, mostly younger Skaikru without old ladies, but she spots Libby Byrne, Denby’s wife. According to Raven, she’s making a fortune directing porn movies involving men in gorilla suits. 

She doesn’t see Jasper or Monty, but Bellamy’s drinking with Murphy and Nate, a Skaiswallower perched in his lap. She’s the same girl as the night of the Octavia’s party, slim and sinuous, with long brown hair and a smug smile. She blatantly looks Clarke up and down, presses closer to Bellamy. Murphy nudges him and he sees her, a slow grin curving his mouth. He displaces the girl and Clarke catches her furious expression as she stalks towards a group of similarly dressed women. She doesn’t regret the jeans and tank she chose to wear, although she certainly sticks out. She’s used to it though – she’s never really fit into Bellamy’s world.

“Princess,” Murphy drawls and leans back in his chair. “Digging the ‘do.”

She laughs, surprised how easy it is to relax around him. Growing up, he was always her least favorite prospect. “When in Rome, do as the Roman’s do, right?” 

Murphy frowns, but Bellamy laughs. History was the first thing that brought them together. She’d bought a history exam off him her junior year, the first and only time she’d cheated in school, and it wasn’t until later, when she knew him better, that he admitted the test was actually his. “Glad you could make it.” He takes her hand and leads her to the back. “Did you bring everything?” 

“It’s right here.” He’s left the door to the apartment open, but she still looks around nervously, like his girlfriend will march in and impale her with a stiletto. 

“You okay?” She’s making a big show of spreading the files across the bed.

“Is your girlfriend cool with us hanging out?” 

Bellamy’s forehead knots. “Echo? She’s not my girlfriend.”

“You two looked pretty cozy when I came in.”

He smirks. “You jealous?”

She rolls her eyes. “No, but even if I was, I’m not eighteen anymore. My catfighting days are over.”

His eyes darken. “That’s too bad. I miss that girl.”

Monty bursts in before she can respond, with Jasper at his heels, and they pile onto the desk chair and floor. “Brothers Green and Jordan, reporting for duty!”

Bellamy slaps Jasper upside the head. “Never say that again.” He hands Monty the flashdrive. “Clarke hasn’t had a chance to review it yet. Flag anything suspicious.” He gives Jasper a copy of the hospital inventory. “Check for any inconsistencies, date that don’t match or addresses that seem off.” He gestures for Clarke to come sit with him. “Princess, we’ll start on the files.” 

Monty and Jasper are watching her, waiting for her cue to start, so there’s no choice but to take a seat on the bed. It buckles a little under her weight, the ancient mattress creaking, and she shifts closer to Bellamy so their shoulders bump. He steadies her with a warm, heavy hand on her back, and all that heat makes her cheeks flush, makes it hard to concentrate. He’s silent beside her as he reads a file, a pen clenched between his teeth. It makes his mouth pout slightly, and she remembers those lips gripping more than a blue Bic. It makes her hands sweat so bad she can barely grip the folder. This was a bad idea. He’s not paying attention though, his dark head bent over the file, and Jasper’s humming to himself as he reviews the inventory list, so she shakes her head and tries to focus on the blur of numbers and words. 

“I knew it,” Monty mutters and the others snap to attention.

“What did you find?” Bellamy closes his file.

“Cuyler Ridley,” Monty says. “He’s the security guard Clarke saw with Diana Sydney. His hospital file is clean, but I’m me.” He flexes his fingers. They look at him expectantly and he clears his throat. “Right. I’ll get to the point. He’s in gambling debts up to his ears. Behind on child support payments too. Or he was, until six months ago when suddenly, his debts were paid.”

“Off the books?” Bellamy asks.

Monty leans back in his chair, satisfaction written all over his face. “You know it.”

Clarke punches the air. “Yes! We’ve got him!”

Three sets of dark eyes land on her. “Down girl. We have a lead, but that’s it.” Bellamy’s eyes cloud. “Let’s not go making accusations until we have real proof.” His dad died under similar circumstances, retaliation for a crime the club didn’t commit, and it’s haunted Bellamy since. She remembers the way his mouth trembled when he told her, his hopes and dreams for the club, to make it into something different, something that wouldn’t rob children of their fathers, and she nods to let him know she understands. “We do it your way. What next?”

“Monty’s gonna keep investigating Diana Sydney. I’ll handle Ridley.”

“Bell,” she says, lays a hand on his arm. “I don’t want anyone else getting hurt – ”

He stills under her touch and she realizes it’s been ten years since she’s used that nickname. “This is who I am,” he interrupts. “Remember? We do the dirty work so you keep your hands clean.” Clarke sucks in a breath, thinking it’s that old argument again, but his face is without malice. He truly believes the words he’s saying. 

“It’ll be fine, Clarke,” Jasper chimes in. “In and out. No one will get hurt.”

She doesn’t like it, but they’re not backing down, so she smiles tightly. “Thanks. I appreciate it.” 

Monty and Jasper make quick work of leaving the room, but Bellamy stays on the bed and she realizes that she’s still touching his arm. He’s so close that his breath blows her hair back from her face. Close enough to kiss. For a moment, his mouth hovers even closer, but then he’s the one to pull away, extending a hand to help her up from the bed. “It’s late. You should get going.”

She keeps her head down as she packs up the files, hopes he can’t see the blush staining her cheeks. It seems the signals have always been crossed when it comes to him. 

The problems start when he walks her to her car – all four tires have been slashed, a metal frame sitting on sad rubber smiles. Clarke inspects the damage. “You sure she’s not your girlfriend?”

Bellamy curses. “I’ll handle this.” She reaches in her bag to call a cab, but his fingers close around her elbow. “Give me five minutes and I’ll take you home.”

She doesn’t protest this time. “Okay.” She follows him back into the clubhouse and pretends to check her texts while Bellamy drags Echo to the bar for a chat. 

When he’s done, his face is more agitated than angry, and he runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “Heavy is the crown,” Clarke jokes.

He sighs. “I’ll have someone pick up the car. We’ll fix it, on us.”

She smirks. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“You ready?”

She tucks the phone away and takes the helmet from his grip. “Let’s go.”  
It’s easier this time, sliding behind him on the bike and wrapping her arms around him. It doesn’t feel like a warm memory; it feels like the only place she wants to be. 

“You’re going the wrong way,” she yells in his ear when he stops at a traffic light a block past Raven’s street.

“If we’re digging up the past, I figured we should take a trip down memory lane.”

She clings to him as they ride past the city limits, so there’s nothing but open road and black sky, but her chest constricts when she realizes where he’s heading. There’s a reservoir a few miles outside town, a cool expanse of moonlight shimmering on the water, and it’s always held special significance to them. She lost her virginity there, back arching into the grass while the starlight glimmered on Bellamy’s skin. She said goodbye to him in that same place, the night she told him that she loved him but it wouldn’t work, tried to smile at him through her tears while anguish burned in his eyes. It’s the same choking feeling in her chest when he stops the bike. 

He watches her closely as she climbs off and hooks her helmet over the handlebars. She looks out over the reservoir, the moon and stars reflected in the water. It’s been a long time since she’s seen the sky laid out so clearly. It never gets fully dark back east.

Bellamy stands next to her, hands in his pockets, a careful distance between them. If either of them moved, their arms would brush, but they both stand rooted in place.

“Why did you bring me here?” 

He shrugs. “It’s a good night to see the stars.”

Clarke scoffs. “Star gazing. Really?”

He shrugs again. “Or maybe I wanted to be alone with you.”

“Bell, I don’t think it’s a good idea – ” she starts. She can’t be distracted by the moonlight in his eyes.

He nudges her, a casual bump between friends. “Relax. I thought we should talk.” She doesn’t relax, but still follows him to the water’s edge, kicks off her shoes to dangle her feet in the water. 

“Do you remember the first time we came here?”

She laughs. “Nate’s birthday. Everyone went skinny dipping except me.”

“You were fully clothed and I was surrounded by naked girls and you were still the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.”

He does it again, makes her breath catch in her chest, and it’s a fight to keep from giving in. “Where are you going with this?” 

“Just reminiscing. Not everything about this place is dirty and bad. Some things are worth remembering.”

Clarke remembers that night. She’d just started dating Bellamy and had shown up a sundress and cardigan. A hush had fallen over the group until Bellamy took her hand and claimed her as his, but she’d still felt like a moron the rest of the party. The girls hadn’t been welcoming, but Nate and Atom had been kind to her; Murphy had teased when she wouldn’t go in the water until Bellamy threatened to give him a black eye. She mostly remembers Bellamy’s lips when he kissed her goodnight, hard and hot and wanting. He’d been a gentleman and hadn’t pushed for more, but her entire body had trembled from the realization that _Bellamy Blake_ wanted her. She knows now that she never fully recovered from that kiss.”

“It was a good night,” she agrees. “Is that why you’re helping me? To honor the past?”

“To honor your dad.” He sounds sincere, all traces of humor gone from his voice. “He was a good man. Always treated me with respect, even when I was in the back of his cruiser.” 

Clarke smiles fondly. It still hurts, thinking about her dad, but it’s no longer a stinging pain. It’s nice, talking about the man he was with someone that knew him well. “He thought people were people, even when they made their own rules.”

Bellamy laughs. “That’s one way of putting it.” He waits a beat. “And what about you? How do you feel about people that make their own rules?”

It’s that old argument, the one that ultimately tore them apart. She understood his loyalty to his father’s club, but not his dedication to ruining his life. He only had so many chances before his luck ran out.

“Do you really want to do this?” 

He curls a finger under her chin, turns her head so she has to face him. His voice is soft, but assured. “Yeah, I do.”

She takes a deep breath, then another, lets out everything she’s kept bottled up for ten years. “I loved you so much I couldn’t see straight. Anything you needed, I did without thinking. I respect your convictions. I know what it means to you, being a part of something that your father built. I think you’re a good man with a good heart. But the club? It would eat me alive.”

“I know,” he says softly. “What the club became…it wasn’t what my dad wanted. It’s not what _I_ want. Kane’s a different type of president. Things are gonna change.”

“That’s good. Really good.” It _is_ good. She hadn’t been able to concentrate after he came in for stitches. A flesh wound could have been a bullet hole, the slug that stopped his heart from beating. She’d sat in the exam room long after he left, staring at his blood on her gloved hands. She can’t go through that again.

Bellamy gets up and takes off his kutte, kicks off his boots, and starts on his shirt, revealing smooth golden skin as he tugs it over his head. 

“What are you doing?” She’s too stunned to be embarrassed by the squeak in her voice.

He shrugs. “The club’s not the only thing that’s changed.” He holds out a hand. “We never did get that swim.”

She looks around in panic. “You want to skinny dip?”

He smiles, soft and slow, and works the button to his jeans. “I didn’t bring my suit. Did you?” He’s the same shade of molten gold all the way to his toes, and she gets a good look at his toned back as he walks into the water. He dives and comes up for air, flinging his hair back from his face. “Coming in?”

“This is insane, Bellamy.”

“I thought you weren’t that girl anymore.” It’s not what she meant when she said she’d changed, but if there’s anything of the old Clarke left, it’s refusing to back down from a challenge, especially the one she sees in his eyes.

“You’re on.” He doesn’t look away as she shrugs out of her jacket and pulls her tunic over her head. His eyes darken from seeing her in just her bra, and it gives her the courage keep going. Her jeans come next, followed by her hair tie, and then she’s standing at the water’s edge in a thin bra and panties. Bellamy swallows hard as she reaches behind to unsnap her bra, eyes darkening even more when she drops it on her pile of clothes. His jaw ticks when she shimmies out of her underwear and jumps into the water. 

It’s freezing, goosebumps immediately breaking out over her skin, and she squeals loudly. Bellamy paddles over and pulls her against him. His skin is burning despite the temperature of the water, and while she starts to warm up, her nipples are hard points against his chest. 

“Someone’s happy to see me.”

Her cheeks burn and she hopes it’s dark enough to hide the flush. “Shut up.”

He laughs. “How’s it feel?”

It feels amazing, hot skin and cold water and Bellamy all around her. His hair has fallen over his forehead and she pushes it back so she can see his eyes. “I should have done this when I was sixteen.”

“Good things come to those who wait.” A bead of water trickles down his temple and she tracks it with her eyes as it slides down to his mouth. She doesn’t lift her gaze. 

He bends his head when she tilts her chin and then he’s kissing her in the moonlight, winding fingers through her hair to get a better angle. She opens her mouth and he deepens the kiss, pulls her closer, so her legs wrap around his waist and she can feel how happy he is to see her too. She rakes her own hands through his hair, moans at the scratch of his jaw and the slide of his tongue. He kisses her the way she remembers, all passion and want, but there’s more skill in the way he angles their bodies, how his hands slip between her thighs. He never used to do that when they were kids. Except neither of them are kids. She needs to stop before she forgets why she’s here. 

“Bell, we can’t,” she whispers, and for a moment she doesn’t think he hears her, because he kisses her, slow and soft, before pulling away.

“Guess we got carried away,” he says. His voice is casual but he’s breathing hard, his chest heaving against hers, and he won’t meet her eyes.

She agrees. “Magic in the moonlight or something.” She smiles up at him, tries to seem casual, but her heart is beating so fast she worries that it might burst from her chest. 

He puts distance between their bodies and finger combs her hair into place. “I think it’s time to go.”

They retrieve their clothes in silence, and Clarke doesn’t miss how he turns his back to let her dress. Whatever moment they were having is over and the silence hangs heavy around them. She shivers and she’s not sure it’s only from the cold. He doesn’t glare at her when he helps her on the bike, but he doesn’t talk either, even when they pull up in front of Raven’s.

“Thanks for the ride.” Bellamy nods, keeps his eyes fixed on his boots while she climbs off the bike. Clarke doesn’t want to say something and break the easy truce they have going, but that moment at the reservoir meant something to her, even if she doesn’t know exactly what. She holds the helmet against her chest like a shield and turns to face him. “Why did you stop?”

He stares at her, eyes bathed in shadow, but he can’t hide the tense set of his jaw, or the muscle that ticks in his cheek. She braces herself for the worst. “We both know why you’re here and it’s not me. Didn’t want us doing something we’d both regret.”

“Bell…”

He shakes his head. “I got caught up in old memories. It won’t happen again.” He guns the engine. “I’ll help you with your case but I don’t think we should see each other again.”

She mutely hands him the helmet and watches the blur of his taillights as he rides away, sinks down to crouch on the curb. She returned to Arkadia to find her father’s killer; she didn’t count on losing part of herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: I’m hoping to post on Sundays now, so expect another chapter next weekend. Also, “Tales from the Organ Trade” was a fascinating documentary that inspired part of this chapter. If you haven’t seen it, check it out. Finally, that version of "Knocking on Heaven's Door" that played in the season 2 finale was tailor-made for SoA, right? Somewhere in Los Angeles, I bet Katey Sagal is kicking herself for missing out on that cover. Thank you, thank you for the wonderful support for this fic. Enjoy.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always!

 

* * *

 

True to his word, Clarke doesn’t see Bellamy again, although he lingers in her life like a festering wound. A prospect named Sterling knocks on her door at 8:00 am the next morning to drive her to work, and is patiently waiting outside the hospital when she clocks out at 6:00. He says goodbye when he drops her car off a day later, but she swears she sees him lurking in her rearview window when she gets gas or leaves the gym. Monty calls with an update on their investigation –Ridley isn’t talking but Bellamy’s determined – and she cuts him off before he can say more. She wants the information but doesn’t need to know how they come by it.

Wells worries about her too. “Why is there a Harley parked outside Raven’s house?” He barges, uninvited, into her office.

Clarke forces herself to remain calm. “Are you checking up on me?”

He drops into the chair on the other side of her desk. “We had a call down the street last night.” He frowns. “You promised to let me handle this.”

“No, I promised to follow your lead. I’m staying under the radar like you asked.”

He crosses his arms and stares her down. “Being involved with the Sons puts a target on your back.”

She bites her lip to keep from screaming. She’s so tired of this conversation, so tired of people telling her what to do. “I didn’t ask for a babysitter, but Bellamy has a protective streak,” she blurts out. Across the desk, Wells raises his eyebrows. “It’s not a big deal,” she tries to backtrack.

“So that’s what this is about.”

“He’s just helping a friend,” Clarke insists, but she says it too quickly, and it comes out like a flimsy excuse.

“Riiiiight…just like you were “helping a friend” that time you stole a car with him.”

She lifts her chin. “I didn’t _steal_ the car. I was just the lookout.”

He leans forward on his elbows. “Are you kidding me? Clarke, what’s going on?”

“Nothing! Nothing is going on.” She takes calming breath. “I can’t stay here forever, Wells. I need answers. I need to know what happened before this place sucks me dry.”

His face softens, sympathy pooling in his eyes. He didn’t become a Marine just because he loved his country; it also gave him a way out of Arkadia. “I get it, even if I don’t understand why you’d want to be involved with those people again.”

She tries not to think about Bellamy at the reservoir. His body alone would be plenty of reason to hang around. “Monty is better at computers than anyone I know.” She holds up a hand before Wells can protest. “Don’t look surprised.”

He sighs. “I don’t know why I thought you’d follow the rules.”

“I didn’t break any laws.” She pauses, thinks a moment. “I don’t think we did. Either way, here’s what we have.” She hands him the flashdrive she carries in her pocket. “See if you can make sense of it. Cuyler Ridley’s the key, but I can’t connect him to anything concrete.”

“I’ll look into it.”

“Thanks.”

He pauses at the door. “You know I worry about you, right?”

“I’m fine,” she insists. “Just help me solve this case and I’m gone.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” He smiles sadly. “I’ll give you a call later, see if any of this stuff checks out.”

After he leaves, she sinks into her desk chair and buries her face in her hands. She isn’t crying, but she needs to clear the noise in her head. There’s avenging her father and there’s Bellamy and it’s starting to feel like she can’t have one without the other.

“Clarke? Everything okay?”

She pushes her hair back from her face and looks up to see Diana Sydney standing in the doorway. She forces a smile and gestures for her to come in. “Busy day. What’s up?”

Diana smiles politely and takes the chair Wells vacated. “I realized that we haven’t talked much since you started your job. It’s been what, a month?”

“Almost,” Clarke confirms. She’s been in Arkadia a month but working at the hospital for closer to three weeks. 

“So tell me, how are things?” Diana’s watching her closely – too closely for a casual visit – and Clarke sits up a little straighter in her chair. 

“It’s nice working back home,” she says. “Thank you so much for the opportunity.”

Diana scoffs. “A first class New York surgeon in our little hospital? We’re the lucky ones.” 

“I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

“I heard you’ve been poking around, asking questions.” Diana’s voice is saccharine sweet to match her smile. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Clarke digs her nails into her palms to keep it cool. “Just trying to get the lay of the land. New job, new culture…you know how it goes.”

“Of course, of course. If you have any other questions, you be sure to come directly to me.”

“You’re generous with your time.”

Diana’s smile wavers, just the tiniest bit, but she still reaches over to pat Clarke’s hand. “Small town charm and all that. By taking a personal interest in my employees, I can support them in their endeavors, make sure they have what they need to be successful.” Diana stands and brushes off her slacks. “I’m glad we could chat. Remember – I’m all ears. No concern is too small.”

“Thanks.” 

Clarke examines her hands after Diana’s gone, runs a finger across the deep grooves her nails etched into her palm. She replays the conversation in her head – it _has_ been a while since they chatted, it’s good management to make new employees feel comfortable – but she doesn’t think that’s the case. She can’t put her finger on why the other woman is so unsettling, only that she doesn’t trust her. Like that mini-series she and her dad watched on one of his old videotapes, about aliens that looked perfectly normal on the outside and the masks they wore to hide the scales and teeth that made up their true selves. Maybe Diana’s hiding a particularly bad skin condition under that chirpy enthusiasm? 

It stays with her the rest of the day, that unsettling feeling, but she shoves it to the back of her mind. “You’re just being paranoid,” she tells herself. “Ms. Sydney always made you nervous when she was your teacher.” She pushes her paranoia aside and smiles as she walks into the late afternoon sunshine, happy to be free of linoleum floors and the stench of antiseptic. 

Ahead, she sees a man wearing a kutte lounging by her car, but she’s had prospects following her all week, so she keeps checking her email as she crosses the parking lot. It’s not until she’s at the car that she realizes he’s not Skaikru. His hair is dark, but his skin is pale and there’s a decal of a flaming mountain on his bike. 

“Hi Clarke,” he says casually, like they’re friends, like she’s known him for years.

“Hi,” she says tentatively and palms her phone, hopes her finger is hovering over the emergency call button; she tries to place his face but comes up blank.

He smiles in that same reptilian way as Diana and she clutches her phone a little tighter. He looks pointedly at her clenched fist. “Rough day?”

“Can I help you with something?” She takes a baby step towards her car.

“Just a friendly visit. It’s not every day that the police chief’s daughter moves back to town.” He doesn’t share condolences for her dad’s death and Clarke likes him even less. 

“That’s kind of you,” she says and takes another step back.

“I’m Cage Wallace.” He extends a hand and his smile turns downright predatory.

Clarke reluctantly takes his hand. It’s cold and clammy and she wants nothing more than to let go, but manages to shake it. “Nice to meet you.” It’s not, but she forces pleasantries to get this over with. She’s a little concerned that he might skin her alive and wear her as a dress.

He withdraws his hand. “See you around, Clarke,” he says and hops on his bike. She waits for his taillights to disappear before wiping her hand on her scrubs. She wants nothing more than to go home and take a long, hot shower, maybe bathe in bleach. 

She tells herself to calm down. It could be nothing. Her father was a celebrity in this town and it would be common knowledge that she’s back in Arkadia. But Cage was waiting by her car – he knew what she drove, where she parked it – and that’s the part she doesn’t like. The larger issue is what to do about it. If she calls Wells, he’ll haul Cage in for questioning and let him go; there’s no crime in being creepy. But if she calls Bellamy, the threat could disappear, no questions asked. She knows what Bellamy is capable of, but does she want that blood on her hands? Cage’s face swims through her mind, that creepy grin and unfocused eyes, and the decision is simple. She turns out of the parking lot and reluctantly dials Bellamy’s number.

“I thought I made myself clear – ” he starts.

“I need your help.” 

He laughs harshly. “Call Jaha Jr. My white knight days are over.” 

“I met Cage Wallace today, and I don’t think it was by chance.”

There’s a pause, then he’s back on the line. His tone has changed considerably too. “What did he want?”

“He introduced himself, welcomed me back to Arkadia.” 

Another pause. “Where are you?”

“In the car, heading home.”

“I’ll meet you at Reyes’.”

“Bell, I got – ”

“See you there.” 

The line goes dead before she can respond and there’s no use in calling back. He won’t answer because he’s riding or he’ll ignore her anyway, so she turns her attention to the road. There’s traffic on the highway so he beats her to Raven’s, and she finds him smoking a cigarette and glaring at passing cars when she pulls up. He snuffs it out under his boot as she approaches. 

She narrows her eyes at the smoking cigarette. “I thought you quit.” 

“I did.” His eyes are narrow as he checks her over for injury. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine.” Bellamy’s scrutiny is making her uneasy, making her wonder if she wasn’t so wrong to think Cage might kill her.

“Bell, what’s going on?”

He rubs his forehead. “The Sons are having some…business with the Mountaineers. That’s probably what this is about.”

She and Bellamy aren’t together. She’s been gone ten years, lived another life. It can’t be because they think she means something to him. “Because –”

“Because of the past and all that shit, Princess.” He sounds annoyed, sucks in a breath to calm down. “I’ll keep a prospect on you until I deal with Cage.”

She fishes her keys out of her purse. “Your prospects have been following me all week.”

Bellamy goes very still. “Sterling hasn’t been here since he dropped off your car.” 

“Then who’s been following me?” She doesn’t care about the panic in her voice. It was one thing when she thought it was a Son trailing behind her, Bellamy being overbearing and over-protective, but it makes her blood run cold thinking of Cage Wallace and his brothers watching her every move. “Oh, god,” she whispers, looks at him with wild, panicked eyes. 

“Clarke, it’s going to be okay.” Bellamy’s voice is gentle, like she’s seen him talk to Octavia when she was scared, and it makes her feel a little better. He’s always taken care of his sister – she trusts him to protect her. “Where’s Reyes? I don’t see her car.”

“What?” 

“Raven,” he clarifies, gestures towards the empty driveway. “Where is she?”

“Visiting her grandmother in Lodi.” Bellamy thinks a moment, then grabs his helmet and starts up the walk. “What are you doing?” 

He takes the keys from her hand and opens the door, like it’s his house, like he’s the boss of her. “Staying the night. I don’t want you here alone.”

Clarke follows him inside. “I’m fine on my own.” The shock’s lifted and she’s starting to regret asking him for help.

“You’re the one that called me.” He drops his helmet on the hall table and wanders into the kitchen. 

“Make yourself at home,” she says sarcastically, but he only opens the fridge and pulls out two beers.

“Want one?” He snaps the cap off using the kitchen counter. Clarke rolls her eyes. He might be thirty, but his manners are languishing somewhere around elementary school.

“Why not?” she mutters and pads after him into the living room. It’s been a long day and a cold beer is a good distraction, even it means drinking with Bellamy. She watches him from her spot on the couch, takes in those long fingers gripping the bottle, the smooth motion of his throat as he swallows. She watches and watches, notes all the ways his face has changed. More freckles have sprouted over his cheeks and there’s a scar above his upper lip. It’s the face she remembers, only older and a little more broken, but she still thinks she recognizes the boy she used to love. 

“See something you like?” 

She blinks to clear her head and finds him watching her too. She expects a smirk but his eyebrows are raised in question. Apparently, the fight’s gone out of him as well. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

He spins his beer bottle in one hand. “I’m sorry for being such an asshole last week.” He smiles another apology. “I…it wasn’t easy losing you.”

“It wasn’t easy walking away.” He nods, a tiny inclination of his head, and she finally feels like they’re on common ground; he might not understand her decision but he knows she didn’t make it lightly. 

They keep watching each other, sipping their beer, and enjoying the easy silence. Bellamy’s stomach growls and then hers does too, but it doesn’t kill the moment, rather, it provides an excuse to extend it. 

“Hungry?” Bellamy asks, grabs her empty bottle and disappears into the kitchen. She expects to hear him calling for pizza or Chinese, but there’s only the clang of pots and pans and the whoosh of the tap turning on. When she follows him into her kitchen, water’s heating on the stove and he’s got his head in the fridge while he rummages through the limited inventory. He straightens and sets bruised tomatoes, an onion, and a carton of wilted mushrooms next to the sink. He wrinkles his nose at her. “I’m shocked you and Reyes haven’t starved to death yet.”

Clarke crosses her arms and leans back against the counter. “Since when can you cook?”

That familiar tension sets in his shoulders, but he shrugs like it’s nothing, and pulls the cutting board out of a cabinet. “You know what my mom was like. If I didn’t figure it out, O would have starved.”

Yet another reason she’s not a huge Aurora fan. The woman might love her children, but she loved her men more, floating from biker to biker until she found one that stuck. In her long line of victims, Kane was the only one dumb enough to marry her. “Your mom’s not easy,” she agrees. It’s not close to what she feels for Aurora, but she’s in no mood to fight with Bellamy, not when things are going so well between them.

He laughs and starts mincing garlic. “That’s an understatement.”

“She hates me. What else could I say?”

He throws the garlic in a pan and the olive oil sizzles as it starts to cook. “She doesn’t hate you. She...” He trails off and chops the onions with more force than necessary. Clarke raises her eyebrows in anticipation of his answer. “She’s not your biggest fan, okay?”

It’s Clarke’s turn to laugh and she moves away from counter to examine his progress at the stove. The garlic is browning nicely and he’s added the onions to the mixture, started dicing the tomatoes and slicing the mushrooms. Fragrant aromas fill the kitchen and her mouth waters. They fall back into that amiable silence as Bellamy works on the sauce and she monitor the pasta, and she keeps waiting for something to go wrong, to break this easy peace between them, but he hums to himself while he puts the sauce to simmer and she can’t take her eyes off him. She’s never seen him like this, so she busies herself with finding the Malbec she bought last week rather than risk messing it up.

When she comes back with the bottle and corkscrew, he looks like he might cry. “Dried basil? Stale oregano? No thyme or rosemary? How do you live in squalor?” 

Clarke brushes past him and busies herself with the bottle opener. “We have Easy-Mac. That’s got to push us one step over the poverty line.” The cork pops and she pours the wine. “Besides, this should more than make up for it.” Bellamy looks at his glass like it might explode in his hand. “You don’t drink wine?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Coward,” she dares him.

His eyes change, darkening with the challenge, and he picks up the glass. “Cheers, Princess.” 

“Cheers,” she whispers, watches him swallow, watches him lick a stray bead of wine from his lip. She studies the liquid in her glass, hopes her cheeks aren’t the same deep red. “How is it?”

“Like blackberries,” he says. “Chocolate.” 

She nods absently, watches him lick his lips again. Bellamy’s so close, just across the kitchen, but the timer goes off and they jump apart. He puts down his wine and instructs her to stir the sauce while he deals with the pasta. Together, they put the meal together, and it’s noodles and sauce, but Clarke can’t remember the last time she ate something that didn’t come out of the freezer section. Maybe that dinner with Wells a few weeks back?

“This is amazing,” she says, twirls spaghetti around her fork. 

“Thanks.” He takes a bite of his own dinner. “I might have outdone myself.”

Clarke takes another hearty bite. “I can’t believe you made this from scratch.” He glances at her and laughs, deep and rich, and she knows the stain in her cheeks isn’t from the wine. “What?”

He reaches over and brushes his thumb down her chin. “Just some sauce.” Clarke forces herself to eat, forces herself to think about anything but his skin stroking over hers.

When dinner’s finished, she does the dishes while Bellamy puts away the food. It’s domestic in ways Clarke doesn’t want to think about, so she focuses her attention on getting all the stains off the wineglass. She wipes down the table and turns on the dishwasher and he’s still there, narrow hips propped against the sink. She realizes that he meant what he said about staying all night.

“I’ll make up the couch.” There are spare pillows and a blanket that Raven’s grandmother made in the linen closet, but when she gets to the couch with her arms full of linens, she realizes that Bellamy can’t sleep there. It’s soft and cozy, but his feet will easily hang off the end. The man cooked her dinner – the least she can do is offer a good night’s sleep. She clutches the blankets like armor, looks at him over the pile of pillows. “Or you could sleep with me.”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “Oh yeah?”

She manages to meet his eyes even though her cheeks are flushing so hot it actually burns. “Just sleep. It doesn’t seem right to make you crash on the couch.”

“Whatever you say, Princess.” 

She gestures towards the guest bath. “There’s an extra toothbrush under the sink.”

He takes the pillows from her. “I’ll be in the bedroom.” 

She grabs her things and sprints to Raven’s bathroom, washes her face and brushes her teeth, fluffs her hair a bit and tweezes a few stray eyebrow hairs. He’s in her bed when she comes in, shirtless and grinning. She slowly slides in next to him, wishes she were wearing more than a tank top and pajama bottoms. It’s a queen-sized bed but he’s bigger than she remembers, all curly hair and bulging muscles and heat coming off his skin in waves. She rolls on her side and tries to ignore him, but he takes up all the space. When she shifts to get comfortable, her foot accidentally trails up his bare calf.

“If you wanted to get me into bed, Princess, you just had to ask.” 

She groans into her pillow, ignores his muffled laugh. She’s the biggest kind of fool for thinking this would ever be a good idea. “Keep your hands on your side of the bed.”

He’s Bellamy Blake and he doesn’t listen, slides closer and pulls her towards him so her back rests against the muscled planes of his chest. Her butt settles in the cradle of his hips, but she doesn’t think about that part, concentrates instead on the solid weight of his arms around her. “Sleep, Princess,” he croons in her ear. “All you need to do is sleep.”

She closes her eyes and drifts off to the sound of his voice and even rhythm of his breathing. He holds her all night long.

 

* * *

 

Clarke wakes to the low sounds of Bellamy’s voice and his scent on her pillow. She breathes him in, smoke and sin and the open road filling her lungs. He’s hunched over on his side of he bed, talking quietly into his cellphone. His hair’s sticking up all over the place and she again resists the urge to smooth it down. She doesn’t want to interrupt, but she’s also unsure where they stand. True to his word, they just slept in the bed, but it feels bigger than the night at the reservoir. There’s something startlingly intimate about sharing dreams with another person. She stays where she is, eyes focused on the strong lines of his back.

“I’m fine,” Bellamy says. Pause. “Asleep - of course I didn’t answer my phone.” Pause. “Fuck, Mom, it’s none of your business.”

She can practically hear Aurora spitting through the phone. _“Mind yourself, Bellamy Blake,”_ she’s probably saying, like she did so many times in the past, usually when Bellamy wanted to hang out with Clarke rather than run an errand for her. 

He runs his fingers through his hair and Clarke sticks her hands under her stomach to keep from touching him. “I’m sorry,” he says. Pause. “Love you too.” He sighs heavily and drops back on the bed, buries his face in his pillow.

“My mom says hi.”

“Uh huh.” It’s the best she can do under these circumstances; normally, she can keep up with him, but today she has nothing clever to say. It’s not fair that he looks so good first thing in the morning. She doesn’t need to look in a mirror to know she looks a mess. She tentatively runs her tongue over her teeth; her breath could probably use work too.

Bellamy extricates himself from the pillow and turns on his side to smile at her. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she whispers back. “Sleep well?”

He ignores her question, strokes his fingers down her cheek. “We’ve never done this before.”

She blinks at him, falls ten years into the past. She’s slept with him in the biblical sense, but always woke up in her own bed. “You’re right,” she manages to say, dimly aware that she sounds like a huge dork.

“I like it.” His hand curves along her jaw and angles her face towards his. “I read that you’re supposed to wake the princess with a kiss.” His mouth is warm as it settles over hers, and his skin is soft, but not as soft as that silky hair, and she threads her fingers through it to deepen the angle. 

“Hey, Griffin, can I borrow – ” Raven stands paralyzed in the doorway, eyes wide as she clutches a chambray shirt to her chest. “Well, hello.”

Bellamy rolls off Clarke and smirks. “Morning Reyes.” Clarke can’t meet her roommate’s eye, makes a big deal of studying the sheets.

“Blake,” Raven huffs. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

She slams the door behind her too and it puts a damper on things; Bellamy roots around for his shirt, tugs it over his head. Clarke walks him to the door once he’s dressed and pauses in the hall, unsure of how to progress. Does she give him a hug? Kiss his cheek? What’s the proper protocol for former lovers that spent a night snuggling? He answers for her by cupping her face in his hands and kissing her, long and lingering, the kind of kiss that settles in her bones and will haunt her thoughts for days.

“I’ll see you later.” 

“Sure,” she squeaks, still recovering from that kiss. He smiles one last time before heading for his bike.

“Bell,” she calls out and he turns his head, squints in the morning sun. “Be careful, okay?” 

“Always am.” He straddles the bike and takes off with a roar, and Clarke feels like it’s ten years ago, like every time he rides away she might never see him again. 

She’s still trying to get her bearings when she finds Raven in the kitchen, stirring her eggs with more vigor than necessary. She doesn’t look up either, even though Clarke’s footsteps thud loudly on the tile. 

“What the fuck, Griffin?” she hisses.

Clarke startles. “What are you talking about? Last week you were joking – ” 

“Last week it _was_ a joke. Now it’s real. I was there the first time. You really want to go back to that?” She turns off the stove with an angry flick.

“It’s not your business – ”

“You’re my friend, Clarke,” Raven interrupts. “That makes it my business,” she adds softly. “You got out of here. You made something of yourself and now you're throwing it away for a big dick and nice abs?”

Clarke flushes – it’s more than true about Bellamy’s anatomy. “It was just a kiss.”

Raven shakes her head. “It’s never just a kiss with you and Blake.” 

She looks sad, like she might cry, and Clarke realizes it’s about more than Bellamy. It’s about a mother that loved being a Skaiswallower more than she loved her daughter, about a skinny little girl with enormous brown eyes that couldn’t see a future beyond a dead end. She understands how Raven feels – it’s exactly why she fled a decade ago.

“Come to New York with me.” Clarke slides up beside her friend so their shoulders brush.

“What?”

“Come back to New York with me. Make a fresh start.” 

“Clarke…” Raven starts, stares with those same scared, dark eyes. “I’ve never been anywhere but Arkadia.”

“Maybe it’s time for a change.” She bumps Raven’s shoulder lightly.

“I’ll think about it,” she agrees, then takes a look at the eggs. “You ruined breakfast.”

Clarke laughs and the tension breaks. “Let’s go out. I’m buying.”

They go their separate ways to get ready, and Clarke thinks about their conversation while she’s in the shower, the proposition she made to Raven. She _does_ want to go back to New York. Her work is there, her apartment, _Lexa_. She misses her things, Amir and Said at the bodega on the corner and Mrs. Lee at the dry cleaners and even the giggly teenage girls that bag her groceries. She misses that it’s hers, that she made it for herself. But she likes how Floyd waves when she passes by the barbershop and Chucky gives her extra sprinkles at Scoops  & Sweets. The town knows her face everywhere she goes, always has a warm smile or kind word about her father. She misses the way this place makes her feel. She worries it might break her when she has to choose.

 

* * *

 

Life returns to something resembling normal. Sterling rolls up just as they’re piling into Raven’s car and it seems rude not to invite him, so he tags along for their breakfast make up session; he’s pleasant company, even if it’s not the meal they were hoping for. They fall into an easy rhythm from there – Sterling usually follows her to work while Myles follows her home – and Clarke gets used to it, prospects trailing behind her like lost ducklings, even after Bellamy pulls back on the reins and they stop sleeping on Raven’s couch. He still thinks Cage is up to something, but not an immediate threat; the bodyguards are restricted to chauffeur duty only. She hasn’t actually seen Bellamy though. Raven reports that most of the club has gone north for a couple days, leaving David Miller and the prospects behind, and Clarke’s sure to tell her that it’s a good thing. She needs a break from Bellamy, time apart to think with a clear head, put her priorities in order and figure out what she wants. She’s no closer to choosing Brooklyn or Arkadia than she was three days earlier, especially when Octavia shows up at the hospital and the decision gets even harder. 

“Hey Clarke.” 

“Hiiii,” Clarke stutters, clicks save and close her laptop. “How can I help you?”

Octavia frowns and takes the seat opposite the desk. “I have a little problem.”

Clarke smiles tightly, does her best to remain polite. She’s not in the mood for another lecture about her poor break up technique. “If this is about Bellamy –”

“I think I’m pregnant.”

“Oh.” That was not at all what Clarke was expecting. “Let’s walk through your symptoms.”

“I’m late.” Octavia swallows hard, looks very much like she’s fighting back tears. “Can you help me?”

She’s tempted to say no, because Octavia’s been nothing but nasty to her since she’s returned to Arkadia, but it’s hard walking away from the panic in those blue eyes. She’s never seen Octavia so open and exposed, so _terrified_ , so she smiles kindly. “Of course.”

It’s an easy process – a quick trip to the bathroom and a drip-stick test – but the time ticks by excruciatingly slow and the way Octavia’s wringing her hands only heightens the tension. Clarke watches Octavia’s face carefully as she checks the results, but she just she looks nervous and it’s impossible to gauge her feelings. 

“Well?” Octavia demands, the heat in her voice a stark contrast to the fear in her eyes.

Clarke works to keep her face impassive. “It’s negative.”

Octavia nods sharply then bursts into tears, buries her face in her hands. Clarke awkwardly stands next to her for a moment, then wraps her arms around the other girl. Octavia clings to her, presses her nose into Clarke’s lab coat, and holds on tight. Clarke whispers soothing words, gently strokes Octavia’s hair like Bellamy did the night she fought with her mom, and lets his sister know that she’s not alone.

Octavia pulls away and ducks her head in embarrassment. Clarke hands her a tissue. “Everything okay?”

“I didn’t think I’d react like that.” She blots the tears from her cheeks, blinks the excess moisture from her eyes.

Clarke takes a seat in the neighboring chair. “Did you want the test to be positive?”

“I don’t know? It’s not like it would be out of character for my family.”

“I remember.” She even manages to hide her surprise. It’s hard to believe that _Octavia_ is confiding in her.

“I’d be dead if it wasn’t for Bellamy. When I was little, I dreamed of having a family of my own, fixing all the mistakes my mom made.” She sighs, rakes a hand through her hair. “I know the timing’s bad. I’m only twenty-three and just started dating Lincoln, but I think I wanted this.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s stupid, I know.”

“I think it’s brave,” Clarke says quietly. “Having a baby is a huge responsibility. It changes your entire life. I’m almost thirty, but I’m nowhere near ready.”

“Maybe you haven’t met the right person.” Octavia’s smile is mischievous rather than mean, but Clarke’s still leery. She knows how easily a Blake can shift moods.

“Octavia…”

“I’m sorry,” she interrupts. “For being such a bitch to you when you came back. It’s just…” She trails off, bites her lip while she finds her words. “It wasn’t just Bellamy that you left behind. You were my friend too.” 

“I didn’t mean – ”

“I called, texted, sent emails. I wrote you an actual letter! All I wanted was to understand what happened and you acted like I didn’t matter.”

“You mattered,” Clarke whispers. “And I know it’s a lame excuse, but it wasn’t you. It was this place. I needed a clean break or it would drag me under.”

“And now you’re back.”

“And now I’m back.”

“Are you planning on leaving again?”

“I don’t know,” Clarke confesses. “There are a lot of things I like about Arkadia.” She makes a point to smile at Octavia. “And other things that remind me why I left.”

Octavia frowns again. “I’m sure my mom isn’t helping.”

Clarke winces. “It’s probably a good idea for us to stay in separate corners.” 

“You won’t tell anyone about this?” Octavia asks suddenly, like she’s just remembered how she felt about Clarke only a few weeks earlier. 

She makes a zipping motion over her mouth. “Even if HIPAA regulations didn’t exist, your secret’s safe with me. ” 

Octavia nods curtly. “I appreciate it.” Silence falls over the room and she stands. “I’d better get going.” 

“There are other doctors in town, pregnancy tests at the pharmacy. Why did you come to me?” Clarke crosses her arms while she waits for the answer.

Octavia pauses in the doorway, grips it tightly like the worn wood is keeping her upright. “I realized the date and what it could mean and I thought of you. Before you left, it’s what I would have done.” She’s always seemed larger than life, all Skaikru fire and Blake grit, but she looks small, and a little defeated, as she straps her bag over her chest. Clarke doesn’t like this side of her.

“I know it’s last minute and you probably have plans, but want to come over tonight? Raven and I are ordering pizza and watching a movie. We’d love to have you.” She’s not sure about Raven given her outburst the other day, but Clarke knows that she wants her there. Octavia is right – Bellamy wasn’t the only Blake she left behind. 

“Okay,” Octavia says tentatively, then louder. “Okay.”

“Great. Come by around 7:00.”

Octavia smiles, almost shyly, and pauses in the doorway. “And Clarke? My friends call me O.”

She’s gone before Clarke can respond, but something tight clutches in her chest. She thinks about that morning in the shower, the debate that raged in her head, and the choice gets harder. 

It’s faded somewhat by the time Octavia up with a six-pack and stack of dvds, and Clarke puts it out of mind when she catches sight of Raven’s scowl. “There have been too many Blakes in my house,” she mumbles under her breath and Clarke elbows her hard. She made so much progress with Octavia this morning – she’ll be damned if she lets Raven mess it up.

If Octavia hears she ignores it, pulls out her phone and starts dialing the number for Dominoes, which is a problem because Raven wants Papa John’s and Clarke blankly stares at both of them. Chain pizza? She can’t remember the last time she ate pizza that wasn’t fresh baked, and had thin-crust, and cost the same amount as her subway fare. They turn to her for the deciding vote.

“Don’t look at me,” she insists. “I haven’t eaten delivery pizza since high school.”

She inwardly cringes, waits for them to join forces and comment about why it’s been so long, but they both stare at her like she’s useless and agree to settle the argument with an arm wrestling contest. Clarke cracks open a beer on Raven’s counter and settles back to watch, ignores the anxiety pressing down on her chest. That choice feels impossible.

 

* * *

 

It doesn’t get any easier the next day. Living in Brooklyn doesn’t require an escort to and from work, but it doesn’t have families like the Lemkins. Tor was a few years ahead of Clarke in school and works at Blake-Kane. That sense of home washes over her as they chat about Jake, and her return to Arkadia, for a few minutes before Reese cuts in and reminds them that the appointment’s about her. 

Tor closes his eyes briefly. “Sass. She gets it from her mother.”

Clarke smiles. “Well, she does have a point.” She gestures at the table. Let’s get started.” She checks Reese’s vision and reflexes, collects blood too. It’s likely a case of bad genetics, but fuzzy vision in a nine-year-old could also indicate something more serious. Like a brain tumor. She hopes it’s the former – she hates the parts of her job that include telling a father that his only daughter is dying.

She rushes the results, but a day passes without a word from the lab, and then another goes by without results, so after three days, she goes to investigate herself.

Her heart drops into her stomach when she walks through the door. Dr. Tsing is there, in her usual pristine lab coat and high heels, but she’s talking to a muscled biker with reddish hair and a flaming mountain stitched on his kutte. They stop their conversation when they see her and the man turns, so Clarke can see his face. His features are pleasant enough but his mouth flattens into a thin line and she doesn’t like the look in his eyes. Hard. Calculating. Cold. She struggles to paste a smile on her face.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Tsing and the biker exchange a look that makes Clarke’s stomach fill with dread. It’s a lot of work, keeping up her smile and looking for the nearest exit.

Tsing smiles tightly. “Can I help you with something?”

Clarke shoves a file in her direction. “Reese Lemkin’s test results. They’re overdue.” 

“Sure.” Clarke stares at the floor while Tsing looks up the results, anything to keep from meeting that creepy biker’s gaze. It has to be a Mountaineer thing – just thinking about Cage makes her want to shudder. Tsing prints out the results and hands them to Clarke. 

She quickly checks the report. Everything looks normal, although she’ll still want a CT scan. Tsing and the biker are watching her when she glances up and she forces bright cheer into her voice. “Appreciate it, Deepa.” 

That tense smile reappears on Tsing’s face. “Of course. If you don’t need anything else, I’d like to get back to work.”

Clarke says goodbye and does her best to walk out at a normal pace, but she can feel their eyes on her, the biker’s especially, and she barely makes it out of their sightline before sprinting down the corridor to the elevator. It stays with her the rest of the day and that feeling in her stomach turns into full-bodied dread. Her head aches and her palms are sweaty and her voice shakes a bit when she calls Tor to give him the test results. She’s hugely relieved when she leaves the hospital and finds Myles waiting for her; she’s grateful for his company at the grocery store too. 

He follows her home and insists on helping bring the groceries inside. Clarke agrees; the faster everything’s unpacked, the sooner she can tell Bellamy about what happened in Tsing’s office. She already has her phone clutched in one hand as she watches Myles grab the final bag. She’s attempting lasagna tonight – Raven threatened to kick her out if she served one more meal from the freezer aisle – and it’s the heaviest bag, with the olive oil and tomato sauce and Raven’s two liter Dr. Pepper.

“You got it?” Clarke asks. Myles is eager to please, but she’s seen pencils wider than his arms. 

“Hells yes!” He hoists the bag on one shoulder and grins at her.

Clarke grins back, contemplates asking him for dinner, when she hears it, the steady roar of motorcycles thundering down the street. For a moment her heart soars – Bellamy’s back from yet another trip – and then it drops to the pit of her stomach. There are too many bikes and the kuttes are all wrong, a burning mountain flaming in the waning light.

Everything moves in slow motion as the men raise their arms and Clarke realizes what “deer in the headlights” means, as she stands transfixed in her driveway, knowing she has to move but unable to budge. She just watches as the muzzles flash and the crackle of gunfire sounds in her ears and then she’s being thrown roughly to the ground, a heavy weight crashing down on her.

Then, as quickly as it began, it’s over, the bikes roaring down the road, taillights glowing in the growing darkness. Clarke’s dimly aware of Myles sprawled across her back, his blood seeping warm and sticky from the holes in his body. She crawls out from under him and sits beside him on the pavement, cradles his head in her lap and strokes his hair from his brow. His eyes are blank, unfocused, and there’s so much noise in her head. There’s the thudding beat of her heart and the distant wail of sirens and so much screaming. It’s not until later, when Wells is holding her in his arms, that she realizes the wailing is coming from her.


	5. Chapter 5

 

* * *

 

The immediate aftermath is a blur. Wells is there, talking in soothing, low tones that coax Clarke into letting go of Myles. His chest is a gooey mess of blood and leather, but his face is untouched, youthful and pale under the floodlights. She watches the medical examiner load him onto a stretcher, feels the bile rise in her throat. She barely makes it to the edge of the driveway before puking up whatever was in her stomach. She ignores the sympathetic looks from the officers and medical personnel. She doesn’t deserve their pity, not with Myles’ blood on her hands.

Literally. It’s literally on her hands and she furiously scrubs at them with the towel a paramedic gave her, curls into the blanket Wells draped over her shoulders and tries to imagine she’s anywhere else. There are police everywhere, mostly because the former chief’s daughter was the victim of an attempted murder, and they mill about the lawn and huddle on the sidewalk and give Abby Griffin a wide berth when she comes charging through. 

“Dr. Griffin,” a young recruit tries. He’s the only one brave enough to face down her determined gaze and confident strut. “This is a crime scene – ”

“I want to see my daughter.”

Clarke hears her mother’s voice through the din, and it’s the same cutting tone she’s heard only a few times before (when she started dating Bellamy, when she got arrested, when she swore she was leaving Arkadia forever), but she’s grateful for it now. The officers, even that poor rookie, let her pass. 

“Clarke, honey,” Abby says.

Clarke glances up, blinks back tears to see her mom standing in front of her, looking a bit like an angel with her face backlit by the floodlights and her eyes soft and tender in the shadows. It makes the tears roll down Clarke’s cheeks at an alarming rate. “Mom?” she chokes out and Abby crouches in front of her, cups her daughter’s face in her hands. They haven’t spoken since that ugly night on Raven’s couch, but it feels like no time has gone by, like she’s a little girl again and slide-tackled Roma during soccer practice and has a bloody gash on her knee, knows it will be okay when her mom smiles and presses a kiss to her forehead. 

It’s more than a scraped knee, but Abby provides the same comfort, her lips still soft against Clarke’s brow, her hands cool and steady. She pulls Clarke into her arms, holds on tight while her daughter shakes and cries and mourns the life she used to have: the life before she saw a man die; the life before he died in her arms; the life before he died because of her.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but we need to take Clarke’s statement.” Wells both looks and sounds apologetic as he stops in front of them.

Abby opens her mouth to suggest otherwise, but Clarke shrugs out of her arms and struggles to her feet. “It’s fine, Mom. I want to do it.”

“I’m coming with you.”

She looks to Wells for confirmation and he nods, both Griffin women following him to his patrol car. He makes a big deal of avoiding eye contact with Abby as he helps her into the backseat; even though his mother was dead when the affair took place, he’s always sided with Clarke. The ride to the station is quiet, but the press are waiting when Wells pulls up in front. The story’s gotten out – a pretty blonde doctor was almost killed in a drive-by shooting – and they’re practically chomping at the bit.

“I’m sorry,” Wells apologizes as he guides her through the door. “We’ll take the back door when we’re done.” Clarke doesn’t mind the flashing lights; they’re a good distraction from what’s happening in her head.

“I need you to walk me through it step by step, okay?” Wells asks once they’re in his office, Clarke and Abby sitting in chairs opposite his desk.

“Okay,” Clarke says softly. Her mom takes her hand and gives it a squeeze in support.

She tells Wells as much as she can: the brand of tomato sauce in the bag, the reddish glow of the setting sun on the biker’s hair, the strange sucking noise she heard when the bullets landed in Myles’ chest. Wells records her statement, makes notes in her file, and her mom grips her hand the entire time. She doesn’t tell them about her conversations with Cage or Tsing, or that the red-haired biker was the one she saw in the lab. It’s too much of a coincidence, all these people showing up in her life the same day a hail of bullets flew across her lawn, but she doesn’t feel safe talking about it here; her dad didn’t either. She sticks to the facts; she can share conspiracy theories with Wells later.

She’s further convinced her instincts are right when Terrence Shumway, her dad’s number two and the new police chief, walks into the office.

“Abby,” he says in greeting.

“Terry,” she responds, watches him with steely eyes. Clarke’s never liked him much, but Abby seems to downright hate him, probably because he took her husband’s job before his body was even cold. 

He holds Abby’s gaze a few seconds before turning his attention to Clarke. “How are you doing?”

In a rare show of solidarity, she decides to follow her mother’s example. She almost died a few hours ago – she has little patience for pleasantries. “I’m alive, unlike Myles,” she snaps.

He doesn’t even blink. “Well, it’s par for the course in his line of work. I’m just glad that you’re all right.” He turns to Wells. “Deputy Jaha, may I see your report?”

Wells is good at masking his feelings, but even he can’t hide the tense set of his jaw. “Of course, Chief.” He slides the file across the desk.

Shumway scans the report quickly and smiles, the same sycophantic smile as Cage Wallace and Diana Sydney. It’s not proof, but it pings Clarke’s radar; she hasn’t put the pieces together yet, but somehow, these people are involved in the same scheme. She adds it to the list of things to discuss with Wells.

“If you don’t have further questions, I’d like to take my daughter home.” Abby fixes Shumway with that same hard stare and his smile falters. 

“Of course. You must be exhausted. Deputy Jaha will contact you if we have more questions.”

Wells looks pained when Shumway departs. “Sorry about that, but he’s my boss.” He frowns. “I miss your dad.”

“He was so happy you joined the squad,” Abby says and Clarke glances up sharply. It hurts less than she imagined, hearing her mom reminisce about her dad, like the night at the reservoir with Bellamy. It settles into her chest like a warm mist, remembering how many lives Jake Griffin touched for the better. “He’d be very proud of the work you’re doing today.” Abby pats his elbow, like she did when they were kids, like he’s still living half his life in her house. 

To Clarke’s surprise, Wells doesn’t pull away. “Just trying to do right by him.” He turns his attention to Clarke. “Are you ready to go?” 

She nods and pushes to her feet, follows her mother and Wells out of the station. As promised, he takes her out the back door, and it’s clear of photographers and reporters. 

“Where are you taking her?” Abby asks Wells. “She can’t go back to that house.”

He looks at Clarke. “Where do you want to go? I’ll keep an officer on you 24/7 to be safe.”

Technically, she can go back; while her car was blasted to pieces, the house sustained limited damage. The problem is that she doesn’t _want_ to go back. She can stay at Raven’s or stay with her mother, and neither option is appealing. Myles died at the house that’s slowly becoming her home, but Jake’s ghost haunts the place where she grew up, and either way, she’s not sure she’s willing to risk a Motel 6. Tears form in her eyes again; the night just won’t end. 

“She’s coming with me.” All three heads snap up as Aurora Kane saunters across the parking lot, booted heels tapping furiously against the pavement.

Abby takes a step in front of her daughter. “Aurora, this is none of your business – ”

Aurora ignores her, takes a step closer so her face is illuminated by the harsh lights. She looks fierce and determined and Clarke’s head starts to pound. She’s too tired for this right now. “Deputy Wells,” she says coyly. “Let me handle this.”

Wells rises to his full height, like the Marine he was, and doesn’t back down. “The sheriff’s department is perfectly capable of protecting – ”

“You came through the back door without an escort,” Aurora points out. “Where are your fellow officers?”

“Ms. Blake – ”

“It’s Kane, and you didn’t answer my question.”

Wells sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes. He suddenly looks very tired and overwhelmed. Clarke can sympathize; Aurora Kane is a lot to handle on days when a teenager didn’t die on Raven Reyes’ front lawn. “I appreciate your concern, Ms. Kane, but we have Clarke’s safety under control.”

Abby jumps in too. “I’m capable of taking care of my own daughter.”

Aurora’s eyes narrow and Clarke can predict the retort forming on her tongue, and it only makes her head pound harder. “Let Aurora talk,” she says to diffuse the situation.

Her mother looks hurt but Aurora smiles victoriously. “We all know what happened tonight wasn’t an accident.” She looks pointedly at the badge on Wells’ chest. “We know your kind can’t provide the protection that she needs. The Sons will handle it.”

Abby lays a possessive hand on Clarke’s shoulder. “My daughter stays with me.” 

“You always were too proud for your own good.” Aurora takes a menacing step towards Abby. “If you want Clarke to keep that pretty head, you’ll let her come with me.” 

Abby doesn’t back down from the fight. “If you think – ”

“Enough!” Clarke interrupts. She’s tired of them talking about her like she’s not even there, tired of her mother making decisions for her. Ten years ago, Abby had picked out her clothes and monitored her meals, practically filled out her college applications for her. Even before the affair, she’d been desperate to escape her mom’s tight control. And now, with her life literally on the line, Abby still has to make it all about her. Clarke doesn’t want to go with Aurora either, but she trusts the woman to keep her safe. “It’s my choice. Please respect it.” She holds up a hand to silence her mother. “Mom, let it go. They have the resources to protect me.” She looks apologetically at Wells. “No one else does.”

Wells doesn’t correct her. “Are you sure?” he asks, eyes searching her face. Even gone a decade, she can’t fool him any better than she did when they were kids.

“Yeah, I am.” She squeezes his hand to emphasize the point. If anyone can keep her out of harm’s way, it’s the Sons.

He folds her into a hug. “Stay safe,” he whispers into her hair. 

Aurora impatiently taps her foot. “If you’re done kumbabyaing, it’s time to hit the road.” 

Clarke turns to her mom. “We need to go.” 

Abby’s eyes fill with tears. “I don’t even know where.” 

Aurora deliberates a moment. “The Sons have a place out of town. Kane and the club are already on their way.” The sneer falls from her face and she almost looks sympathetic. “I’ll take good care of your baby,” she says to Abby. 

Her mom wraps Clarke in a tight hug. “Someone tried to kill you today. It’s okay if you’re upset.”

She burrows into Abby’s shoulder, tears pricking her eyes again. It doesn’t matter if she’s upset or not, as long as she stays in Arkadia, she’s a moving target.

Abby pulls back to look her daughter in the eyes. “I know you think I’m controlling, but I was so afraid.”

Clarke knows how she feels. She was eighteen and Bellamy was twenty, and she’d spent more than one sleepless night waiting for him to check in, to come home, to let her know that “club business” hadn’t claimed another life. Then, a two-hour job turned into a twenty-four hour disappearance and she’d stayed up all night, afraid to leave the phone. He hadn’t called but knocked on her window instead, and she remembers the relief that soared through her chest when she saw him crouching there, sweaty and dirty but alive and whole. She’d let him in, squeaky latch and all, and made him stand there a moment, taking in the shaggy mess of his hair and the bruise on his cheekbone, and she hadn’t known if she wanted to kiss him or slap him but she settled for holding him in her arms. Ten years later, she can still feel that weight pressing on her heart, the solid proof that he was really there.

She assumes it was the same for Abby, when she got the call and then found her daughter covered in blood. It might have belonged to someone else, but Clarke remembers the night she stitched Bellamy back together, the strength it took to keep her hands from shaking. It was a minor cut, but it had still hurt, seeing him injured, and she knows Abby felt the same when she found her on Raven’s lawn.

“I’ll call when we get there.”

Abby lets go, albeit reluctantly, eyes watery as she watches Clarke and Aurora walk to the car. Clarke says nothing as she climbs into the front seat of the SVU and buckles her seatbelt. As the car pulls away, she looks back and sees her mom and Wells standing by the police station, his arm wrapped around Abby’s shoulders. It makes her smile, seeing them together, a bright spot on this otherwise horrible day, two people she loves finding strength in each rather than pushing them away.

“I noticed you didn’t ask where we’re going.” Aurora doesn’t bother signaling when she turns out of the parking lot.

“Because I already know.” Clarke glances at the other woman. “Did you think Bellamy wouldn’t tell me about the cabin?”

Aurora frowns. “I’d hoped my son would think with more than his dick.” 

“If he trusted me not to talk about the cabin, he must have been thinking with something further north.” Clarke settles back in her seat, watches the traffic on the highway as Aurora swerves angrily into the next lane. It feels good, getting one up on the woman that was always quicker with a comeback, faster on her feet, and she doesn’t fight the smirk that tugs at the corners of her mouth. She wears it the rest of the drive upstate.

 

* * *

 

They arrive at dawn and whatever Clarke heard about the cabin doesn’t prepare her for the real thing. The sky is every color of the rainbow, the leaves a brilliant green against the rising sun, and the house looks like something out of an Impressionist painting. She wishes she could see it under any other circumstances, like on vacation rather than fleeing a gun-toting motorcycle club.

“Wow,” she says, takes a big gulp of fresh air. It feels cleaner up here, purer, like it can filter the death and grief out of her lungs. “How did you end up with this place?”

Aurora gets out of the car. “I didn’t steal it if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Clarke flushes. “I wasn’t – ”

“It was my daddy’s, then it was mine, and when I married John, it became the club’s.” She pops the trunk, crosses her arms and waits for the hatch to open.

Clarke never met Bellamy’s father, the man that died as payback for a crime he didn’t commit, and he’s been dead almost twenty years yet his legacy lingers. She sneaks a glance at Aurora staring at the cabin, the wistful expression on her face, and wonders how much more the club will take. Aurora already lost her inheritance, her husband…dark curls and a sheepish smile pop into Clarke’s head and it makes her chest hurt. There’s so much more to lose.

“Help me with the bags,” Aurora instructs and Clarke snaps to attention, happy to have a distraction. The trunk is filled eggs and cheese, onions and peppers, bacon and sausage, coffee and juice and all the ingredients for a breakfast spread. Aurora looks at her inquisitively. “What? You were hoping to live on hopes and dreams?”

“I didn’t realize – ”

Aurora gestures at one of the paper sacks. “Be careful with the eggs.” She starts for the house, leaving Clarke staring blankly at the trunk. When Aurora showed up at the police station, she thought it was the woman butting into other people’s business, like she’d done so many times in Clarke’s teenage years, but now she realizes it’s more. It was a rescue, an escape, and Aurora came prepared. She’s not sure how she feels about it; nothing from a Blake comes for free.

After a quick call to her mom, Clarke brings in the dairy products and goes back for the vegetables, silently carrying bags and unloading their contents. They only speak so Aurora can tell her where to put items, or which cutting board to use. “Prep the eggs, then grate the cheese. We have ten hungry men coming and need to be ready.”

“I thought you didn’t cook,” Clarke says as she carefully cracks eggs and discards the shells. Aurora’s made fast work of chopping onions and peppers and already started on the fresh thyme. 

“Is that what my son told you?” Aurora’s knife doesn’t stop moving.

Clarke flushes again. “He might have mentioned it.”

Aurora adds a pat of butter to a cast iron frying pan and turns on the stove. “Back then, I was more concerned with putting food on the table than making it.” She stirs the butter then reaches for the onions.

She’s always been the Skaikru queen to Clarke, and she hasn’t given much thought to Aurora’s life. She imagines it couldn’t have been easy, left alone with two kids and a murdered husband, but the club always swore to take care of its own. It’s what Bellamy had said the night they got arrested, as they were loaded into the back of Shumway’s cruiser. “It’ll be okay,” he’d promised, cuffed hands awkwardly clasped with hers. “Our lawyer’s already on the way.” She hadn’t needed the lawyer, not with her dad pulling strings, but Bellamy had been out on bail the next morning, acting like it was no big thing even though it was the beginning of the end. It makes her wonder how far the club’s charity extends, if keeping Aurora safe was enough to make up for how she’d struggled to keep her children clothed and fed. Clarke wonders how far they’ll go to protect her.

“You seem to have learned a few things.” 

Aurora shrugs. “I’m a kept woman now. Lots of time to practice.” 

Clarke notes the enormous diamond on her left hand, the glittering hoops in her ears. It makes her wonder again, the sacrifices Aurora made to protect her family.

“Is that why you brought me here, because the club wanted it?” 

Aurora stirs the onions. “Bellamy called, but I was my decision.”

“So you’re not a kept woman.” She whisks the eggs into a frenzy.

“The club is family,” Aurora reminds her. “What they want becomes what you want.”

“Love the man, learn to love the club. That’s what you told me.” Clarke sets aside the bowl of eggs and begins slicing bread. 

“I didn’t think you loved either.”

Very slowly, Clarke puts down the knife and shoves her hands in her pockets to keep from hitting Aurora, even though she thinks it would make the other woman like her more. She’d always encouraged Clarke to stand up for herself with more than words, but Clarke’s not giving her that satisfaction. Instead, she holds herself very still, makes sure her tone is razor sharp, so there’s no mistaking her meaning. “You can say all the nasty things you want, but _never_ say I didn’t love Bellamy. If I hadn’t loved him, I probably would have stayed.”

Aurora snorts. “Right. You loved him so much that you needed to be anywhere but with him.”

Clarke feels the anger bubble through her. Her face is hot and her hands curl into fists at her sides; when she speaks, her voice trembles with rage. “I got away before I turned into someone I hated and blamed it on Bellamy.” She raises her chin and meets Aurora’s gaze. “I left before I turned into you.” 

Aurora calmly picks up her knife and resumes cutting mushrooms. For a long moment, the room is silent except for the hiss of the onions and the thwack of the knife. Clarke’s chest heaves with the effort of slowing her breathing, forcing the fire to drain from her cheeks. “I went to your graduation,” Aurora says softly, the steady thud of her knife never ceasing.

“What?”

“You were the class valedictorian,” Aurora continues. “You were dating my baby and I was so proud – the smartest girl in the school, off to college in New York, and you wanted a Blake.” A faint smile curves her mouth and she finally puts down the knife. Her eyes are sad and pained when they meet Clarke’s. “I saw myself in you: smart, funny, not afraid to stand up to the boys.” Her smile twists, turns into something bitter and betrayed. “We let you in and you treated us like we were no better than the dirt beneath your shoes.” 

“I needed a clean break,” Clarke whispers. It’s the same excuse she gave Octavia and it sounds just as feeble when she tries it on Aurora. 

Aurora turns back to the mushrooms. “You were weak and acted like it was our fault that you couldn’t bear it.”

The accusation lights a spark inside her. Clarke made many mistakes a decade ago, but it took all the strength she had to get on that plane and never come back. Her freshman year had been a blur of organic chemistry and missing Bellamy so much her chest literally ached, but she got through it, kept her mind on the prize: college, medicine, a future free of violence. Aurora needs to know that. 

“I got arrested,” she says. “I take full responsibility for my actions that night, but I couldn’t let it happen again. I almost lost my scholarship, any chance at becoming a doctor, and leaving was the only way to keep it from happening again. I won’t apologize for that.” She picks up her own knife and saws away at the bread.

“Yuppie bitch,” Aurora hisses.

“Skaiswallower,” Clarke mutters in return. 

Aurora grabs Clarke’s wrist. “I am many things, sweetheart, but I never sucked dick to earn my keep.” 

Clarke doesn’t back down, opens her mouth to respond, when she realizes how they’re standing, on either side of the kitchen island, each holding a chef’s knife and glaring at one another. An unexpected burst of laughter bubbles through her. “Oh my god, Aurora!” Another giggle escapes. Aurora frowns, then glances down and sees how they’re standing, and she’s suddenly fighting back a grin. Clarke puts down the knife and grips the island, shoulders shaking with laughter. It’s absurd enough to be real, facing off with Aurora while holding a chef’s knife, so angry she was practically spitting. The anger fades as the laughter spreads to her belly, because she almost died just twelve hours earlier and thought a knife fight would be a good way to celebrate. She wipes tears from her eyes and sneaks a glance at Aurora; the other woman is intently studying her cutting board. The onions are still caramelizing in the pan, but the mushrooms lie abandoned. “Aurora?” she prods.

“I don’t hate you,” Aurora responds. “I know I wasn’t easy on you either, but this life isn’t easy.” She grips the island too, like she needs it to stand up. “I sometimes think how my life would be if I’d never met John, never met the club…” She brushes her hair back so she can meet Clarke’s gaze. Her eyes are clear, focused, but without the usual malice, and it gives Clarke the tiniest bit of hope that she can mend this final fence. “I don’t hate you, but if you break my son’s heart again I will kill you.” 

So much for healing old wounds; Aurora promptly dumps the mushrooms in the pan and ignores Clarke, but it doesn’t feel like a blow. It feels like the Aurora she first met, the one she thought was more bark than bite, and while she was proven wrong – that bite leaves scars that never fully heal – she thinks she might be on the right side of it. A comfortable silence spreads through the kitchen as they put the finishing touches on breakfast, and Clarke realizes how much she wanted this, a truce, a ceasefire, the chance at building a real relationship with Aurora. 

There’s a lot she can learn from her, and it’s never been clearer than when the bikes pull up in front of the cabin and Aurora puts on her armor to face them. On the surface she’s all flashy jewelry and leather boots, but Clarke’s seen inside her, understands her fears; there was no guarantee the entire club would make it back from Nevada in one piece. 

Kane comes forward with a tender smile and gentle hug for his wife. Their relationship still seems strange, but it’s starting to make sense. Aurora is all fire, but Kane is cool, controlled. He sees the big picture, can think long term, and they balance each other well. He cups Aurora’s cheek and mumbles something only she can hear, their dark heads bent together as they embrace.

Bellamy’s right behind him and he doesn’t pause to ask how Clarke’s doing. He wraps her in his arms and buries his face in her hair and holds her so tight her feet come up off the porch. Long minutes pass before he lets her go, takes a step back to search her face. “You okay?” She nods, not trusting her voice. He presses a kiss to her temple. “We’ll talk about it later.”

Aurora lays a hand on his cheek. “I’m glad you’re okay, baby,” she says. 

Bellamy hugs his mom. “I owe you.”

Aurora shakes her head. “She’s family, right?”

Clarke watches the exchange, notes the surprised smile that curves Bellamy’s mouth. “Yeah, she is.” He slings an arm over Clarke’s shoulders and steers her into the cabin. “A lot happened while I was away.”

She rests her head on his shoulder. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

The rest of the club follows them inside and bombard her with hugs – Monty might even have tears in his eyes when he pulls away – but they’re distracted by the veritable feast on the table. There’s scrambled eggs and a frittata and bacon and sausage and juice and coffee and toast and so much food there’s barely room for plates. Aurora wasn’t kidding either. The men pour into the kitchen and attack like they haven’t eaten in days, although they don’t touch the food they’re loading on their plates. Kane takes his seat at the head of the table and picks up a beer, the rest of the club following his lead. 

“To Myles,” they say, raise their beers and take hearty sips, wait a full minute before digging into the food.

Clarke slides into the chair next to Bellamy’s and sips her coffee while the club tells stories about their most recent trip. Best she can tell, they patched over new members and Jasper met a girl named Maya, but it’s hard to focus when Myles is dead and they’re laughing over silly adventures. She doesn’t blame them, but she doesn’t have much of an appetite either, although she nibbles a piece of toast when she catches Bellamy staring. It sticks in her dry throat, but she forces herself to swallow, to build the strength she knows she’ll need to get through the rest of the day, because when the meal is finished, the interrogation begins.

“Tell us what you saw.” Kane fixes his dark eyes on Clarke and under the table, Bellamy takes her hand, gives her the emotional strength she needs to recount that terrible night.

She tells them everything, all the things she couldn’t tell Wells, all the details that actually matter: Ridley, Tsing, Diana Sydney, the reddish-haired biker. She tells them the theory she cooked up on the car ride to the cabin. “I think Diana Sydney is running an organ trafficking ring out of St. Finneus’, Deepa Tsing and Cuyler Ridley are in on it. The Mountaineers are too. I saw one of them talking to Tsing in the lab…he’s the guy that killed Myles.” 

“The Mountaineer – what did he look like?” Kane asks.

“Tall, big guy. Reddish hair. I didn’t see any tattoos or scars.”

“Emerson,” Bellamy jumps in. “He’s their Sergeant at Arms.”

“If what she’s saying is true, they’re probably providing security in exchange for a cut.” David Miller leans his forearms on the table while he mulls it over.

It had seemed like a stab in the dark during those long, silent hours in the car with Aurora, but her theory suddenly becomes a reality: Myles died because of what she saw between Emerson and Tsing. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “It’s all my fault.” Bellamy squeezes her hand.

“The club takes care of it’s own,” Kane says and the others quickly agree. “Now that we know what happened, it’s time to plan.” They get up from the table and head outside, away from prying female eyes. Bellamy squeezes her hand again before following them out.

Clarke stares at the empty table, robotically starts clearing dishes. Aurora stops her with hands on her shoulders.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” she says. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

The paramedics gave Clarke fresh scrubs after they checked her over, and the blood has been scoured from her hands, but she can still feel the death clinging to her skin. She numbly follows Aurora into the bathroom, watches her leave a stack of clothes on the toilet seat. “Take a shower, wash your hair. I’ll take care of the kitchen.” Aurora closes the door softly but it reminds Clarke of the crack of the gunfire, the whistle of the bullets as they zipped by her head. She pulls off her clothes with shaking hands, turns on the water and steps under the spray and cries, rests her head against the cool tile while the hot water thuds against her back and the tears flow, all the fear and guilt and relief that’s been coursing through her, because people want to kill her and one person already died for her, but she’s alive, her heartbeat thumping erratically against her ribs. It’s almost a rush, the heady thrill of cheating death. It only makes her cry harder. 

She stays in the shower a long time, until the hot water runs out, until she’s all cried out and there’s no excuse for hiding out in the bathroom any longer. The clothes are Bellamy’s, she can tell immediately by the size, but also the faint “BB” Aurora inked into the collar of the sweatshirt. Probably for gym class; Coach Wilson was always warning them about theft in the locker room. The sweatpants are equally huge but soft and warm, and when she rolls down the waistband a few inches, they’re in no danger of falling off her hips. There’s not much she can do with her hair except scrunch it as best she can, but she tells herself to stop fussing. She almost died; no one will blame her for having messy hair.

The club is gone when she steps out of the bathroom and Aurora is whispering fiercely to her son. Clarke can’t hear what they’re saying, although she knows it’s about her. Bellamy is nodding and Aurora is waving her hands around and they both smile when she appears in the doorway. 

“Feel better?” Aurora asks.

Clarke twists the sweatshirt hem between her fingers. “Not much a shower can’t fix.” 

“You did real good,” Aurora says, grasps Clarke’s shoulder and drops a kiss on her son’s cheek. When she turns to say goodbye, Clarke swears she’s smiling at her proudly. 

Bellamy leans against the hall table and watches her, but Clarke ducks her head, suddenly feeling incredibly shy. She can’t tell what he’s thinking, even if she feels his heated gaze on her face. 

“Clarke,” he says in a deep, low rasp, pushes away from the table to cup her cheeks in his hands, long, calloused fingers scraping over her smooth skin. The contrast sends a shiver down her spine. “You scared me so much. I thought – ” He stops in mid-sentence, his fingers trembling along her jaw.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she says, because in that moment, there’s no where else she wants to be, no thoughts of the future or past, just the feel of his hands on her skin and his lips crashing down on hers.

They stumble against the closed door and she arches up into him, so their hips push against each other and she can feel him hard and hot and ready. He braces his arms on either side of her head, presses his hips harder against hers and groans in her mouth. She slips her hands under his t-shirt to grasp at the firm muscles of his back, grips his belt and pulls him even closer. It’s been years since she’s been with a man, grown accustomed to the skill of Lexa’s fingers and tongue (and occasional toy), and she’s forgotten the desperate want, the need to have him stretch and fill her, become part of her. 

“Bellamy,” she whispers into his neck. “I want you.” 

He pulls away from pressing kisses to her throat, stares at her with wild, unfocused eyes. “You’re sure?”

She kisses him again, all teeth and tongue and want, yanks at his shirt to gain better access to his skin. “Now,” she hisses and starts on his belt buckle. “I want you inside me _now_.”

They don’t make it to the bedroom, not with him shoving her sweatpants down her legs and her fingers fumbling with his zipper. He looks into her eyes as he slides inside her, her back arching into the rough wood of the door. He tries to maintain control, to set a steady rhythm, to make it last, but it’s not enough. She almost died and she wants to _live_ , to feel him pulse and swell inside her. 

“More,” she demands, tightens her legs around his hips to draw him in deeper, open herself wider. She sets the pace, fast and feverish, and he keeps up with her like they’ve been doing this every day of their lives, like it hasn’t been a decade since she felt him inside her. A spark lights in her belly, grows and flames with each snap of his hips. He snakes a hand between their bodies, touching her the way she likes, the way he remembers, and she comes apart in his arms, shaking and pulsing and kissing him furiously. She’s still trembling when he finishes, buries his face in the curve where her neck meets her shoulder and groans her name. 

He stays inside her after it’s over, a tangled mess of arms and legs, rakes his hands through her hair and tugs her mouth down to his. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he swears into her skin.

Clarke kisses him soft and tender and filled with all the things she’s afraid to feel. “You’re here now,” she says and he pulls out, holds her while she tries to balance on legs that refuse to support her weight. He takes her hand and leads her to the bedroom, climbs into the bed behind her. She rests her head on his chest, listens to the steady beat of his heart, ignores the little voice in her head that tells her to never let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you! I’m receiving such wonderful feedback for this fic, and even better, introducing people to SoA! Cool! More important, this fic contains a sex scene, and I am always terribly nervous about writing sex scenes. It’s not overly explicit, but still worthy of a increased rating. Please be gentle with your critiques. I really did try. Thanks again. Enjoy!


	6. Chapter 6

 

* * *

 

It’s mid-day when Clarke wakes, curled under a patchwork quilt beside Bellamy’s unoccupied pillow. The curtains are open and the sun is shining, muted beams of light falling over the rumpled sheets. She stretches not unlike a cat, sore limbs sliding over the sheets in an indulgent sprawl. There’s a particular ache in her thighs that makes her smile dreamily, although she’s less enthused by the burn on her back. She’d forgotten what it’s like with Bellamy, how he makes her feel like she’s lost control of her body, drowning in desire and need. It’s almost enough to distract from his absence, the gaping space in the bed where he used to be. His jeans and t-shirt are gone, but his kutte is tossed over a chair and his boots are scattered by the door; she lets out a relieved breath, because wherever he may be, he isn’t gone. Her clothes are neatly folded and piled on a chair and she quickly dresses before padding barefoot through the house to find him. 

The kitchen and living room are also empty, but the front door is open a crack and Clarke steps into the sunshine to join Bellamy on the porch. He’s smoking a cigarette, taking the occasional drag while he moodily studies the trees. She regards him for a little while, bare toes curling into the worn floorboards, feels the excitement fade to anxiety. It would be easy to write off the moment they shared, all desperate passion and relief, but it felt like more, how he moaned her name as he jerked inside her, the way he looked at her like she was the most precious thing he’d ever seen, and she doesn’t know what scares her more, treating it like nothing or admitting it had been everything. She’s mostly terrified that she already knows the answer.

She stares at her toenails instead, painted blue green like the sea, (like her eyes Bellamy told her once), but they’re a poor distraction from the questions ricocheting through her head; she doesn’t think she can forgive Bellamy if he says it was a mistake. Another minute passes and her bones practically vibrate with tension, with the need for clarity, and she sits next to Bellamy on the step, plucks the cigarette from between his fingers and snuffs it out in the dirt. “I thought you quit.”

His shoulders are a taut, rigid line, but there’s something about the tension in his jaw that undermines his tough guy stance, something about the way he won’t meet her eyes that makes her wonder what he’s trying to hide. “Nervous habit,” he finally says, turns his attention to the smoldering cigarette butt. Despite his posture, he doesn’t sound angry. He sounds scared and it soothes Clarke’s own nerves. She doesn’t think it’s too much to hope that they fear the same thing. 

Risking the rejection, she curls into him and rests her head on his shoulder, takes his hand and raises it to her lips to press a gentle kiss to the palm. “I don’t want to leave,” she whispers, and not just because of what happened with Myles. She likes the way she feels with him, like anything is possible, and he’ll always be there to catch her if she falls. She hears the quick exhale of breath, feels his shoulders relax, and she drops her head into the curve of his neck. She smiles inwardly, lets out her own relieved breath. 

“I thought you’d say this was a mistake,” he confesses. “I’m glad I was wrong.” He shifts so she falls into him and he can kiss her, wet and open-mouthed but slow and assured, like he’s no longer afraid she’ll disappear if he lets her out of his sight. 

He’s smiling when they pull away, brushes her hair from her face. “You hungry?” On cue, her stomach growls, like that night in Raven’s house, and he laughs, takes her hand and tugs her to her feet. “C’mon. I’m cooking.” She trails after him into the kitchen, presses her breasts against his back as he pulls ingredients out of the fridge, slips a hand under his t-shirt while he spreads butter on the bread. “You need to eat,” he insists, but he’s already turning in her arms. 

“Mmmn,” she hums, twines her arms around his neck so he can kiss her properly. It’s just getting good when her stomach growls again.

“Eat,” he says against her mouth. “Then we play.” She reluctantly lets go, leans against the counter to watch him work. “I went to the store while you were sleeping. There’s a bag on the table.”

While he busies himself with lunch, she digs through her goodies. There’s underwear and a hairbrush and mousse and a huge box of condoms buried under a packet of hair ties. She picks up the box and turns it in her hands – ribbed for her pleasure! – and looks up to find him watching her.

Bellamy clears his throat. “We never talked about it. I want you to be safe.”

Clarke’s cheeks burn and her voice comes out in an embarrassing squeak. “I have an IUD. Are you – ” She takes a breath to regain her composure, mentally kicking herself. She’s a doctor; if she can’t talk about sexual health with her partner, what good is she to anyone else? “When did you last get tested?”

He ducks his head, but not before she sees the bright flush creep up his neck. “Two weeks ago. I…” he trails off.

She crosses her arms and fixes him with an inquisitive stare. “You what?”

He finally raises his head, a faint blush still clinging to his cheeks. “I had high hopes, okay?” 

“And?” She raises her eyebrows to heighten his embarrassment, but he calls her bluff, slowly slides his eyes across her face to linger on her mouth.

He raises his eyes to lock with hers, lets her see all the heat and desire there. “Turns out I was right.” She takes a step back, bumping against the table, and Bellamy smiles victoriously. “That’s what I thought.” He turns back to the pan and she all but collapses into a chair, wonders how he manages to turn her insides to mush with just a look.

He’s still smirking when he brings over their food, grilled cheese cooked to perfection, and she busies herself with stuffing her face to avoid looking at him. “Do you have a tapeworm I don’t know about?” he asks, takes a sip of beer and looks pointedly at her plate. His is clean, but hers is covered by a steadily growing pile of crusts.

She shrugs, bites into her third sandwich. “I have plans for the afternoon, thought I should keep up my strength.”

He leans on his elbows and leers at her from across the table. “I have plans too. You might want to stop while you’re ahead so you don’t cramp.”

Her hands still for just a moment before she puts down her sandwich, slowly sucks the grease from each finger. Game on. When she’s done, she primly folds her hands in her lap, watches him shift uncomfortably in his chair. She smiles demurely, waits for him to crack, but her cellphone rings and effectively ends the contest. Clarke groans inwardly. Only she could be in the middle of nowhere and still waylaid by technology. 

“You should get that,” Bellamy says, albeit a bit roughly. “Someone named Lexa’s been calling and texting all afternoon.” 

Clarke freezes. When the phone rang, she assumed it was her mom or Wells checking in, and her heart sinks at the thought of talking to her ex. She can’t imagine why she’s calling, but it also can’t be anything good, so she grabs her phone from her purse and slips through the front door to take the call on the porch.

With a heavy heart, she finds Lexa’s number in her favorites and presses the button; she picks up on the second ring. “Clarke!” she exclaims. “You’re okay!”

Clarke’s forehead knots. “I’m fine. Everything okay with you?”

There’s a pause, and then Lexa’s back, sounding both relieved and angry all at once, and it only makes Clarke more confused. “ _I’m_ fine but I didn’t almost die.” 

The words hang between them, take a few seconds to sink into Clarke’s shocked brain. It wouldn’t be a surprise to hear the shooting made the local affiliate in Redding, or even the c-block in San Francisco, but Clarke never considered that it would appear on the national news. She’s been off the grid for twenty-four hours and there’s no way of knowing how the story’s spread. “I’m fine,” she repeats, her voice cracking as it flashes before her eyes, the heavy weight of Myles body as it took a bullet meant for her, his blood drying on her hands, seeping into the lines of her palm. She’s been trying to ignore the guilt, focus on the genuine joy of being alive, but something dark and heavy settles around her heart. “I’m sorry if I worried you.”

“I thought you were _dead_ ,” Lexa hisses, her words landing in Clarke’s chest like a punch. 

They break something inside Clarke, dredge up the feelings she’s trying so desperately to hide, and she can’t stem the flood of tears. “I saw someone die, Lexa,” she whispers. “One minute he was there, laughing about carrying my groceries, and the next I’m soaked in his blood, and when I was finally safe, all I wanted was to forget.”

Lexa’s voice is quiet when she comes back on the line, soft and filled with worry. “I’m sorry I yelled, but I was so scared…” she trails off. “Are you sure you’re okay? Where are you staying? Is there a police officer there? You shouldn’t be alone.”

In the house, Bellamy bangs around in the kitchen and Clarke winces inwardly. Her cheeks are still wet and her eyes itch. She has no interest in opening this can of worms, but she hates lies, hates lying to Lexa even more. It was what drove them apart, the feelings she couldn’t admit that she didn’t have. “I’m not alone,” she admits, closes her eyes briefly. “I’m with Bellamy.”

There’s thousands of miles separating them, but Lexa’s intake of breath is crystal clear. She doesn’t know the details per se, but she knows Bellamy’s name and what it means, remembers the year she spent trying to put Clarke’s heart back together. “You didn’t stay in Arkadia for your dad. You stayed for him.” Lexa’s accusation hisses through the phone line. 

“It’s not like that. Someone tried to kill me and he knows how to keep me safe.” It doesn’t sound like the truth even to her own ears, and Lexa doesn’t buy it either. 

“Clarke,” Lexa says. “Remember whom you’re talking to. You can fool yourself but you can’t fool me.”

Clarke clutches the phone with sweaty fingers and wishes the circumstances were different. Before they were a couple, Lexa was her friend, and she really needs a friend right now, someone that doesn’t know Bellamy, didn’t witness the heartbreak that went down between them, but she broke Lexa’s heart too and she lost her confidant along with her girlfriend. This is a burden she must carry on her own. “It’s complicated,” she says, the understatement of the century, but no less true. No matter what happened between them earlier that day, she and Bellamy aren’t any closer to figuring out what they are to each other. 

Lexa’s voice drips with hurt. “Did you ever love me at all?”

Clarke fixes her eyes on Bellamy’s abandoned cigarette butt, tries to find an answer that won’t cause Lexa more pain. She did – _does_ – care for her, but not in the way she loved a boy she met at sixteen. The cliché practically writes itself, the small town girl that returns home and realizes she’s loved the same boy all along, especially since Clarke thinks it might be true. She feels something for Bellamy, something epic and overwhelming, something she’s afraid to admit might be love. Whatever it is, she’s not talking about it with Lexa, but she still owes her the truth, and she hopes, for maybe the first time, she can really tell her almost wife how she feels.

“Of course I loved you,” she says, digs a toe into the dirt to keep herself focused, to ensure her words are true. “I never lied to you about that.”

“But not enough, right?” _“Not like you loved him,”_ are the words Lexa doesn’t say, but Clarke hears them all the same. 

“In a different way,” Clarke responds. “I didn’t love you the way you wanted, but that doesn’t mean I loved you any less.” She curls her toe into the packed ground hard enough to hurt. “I’m so sorry, Lexa. I should have never gotten involved with you.” 

“You asked me out, but I’m the one who said yes,” Lexa reminds her, and Clarke thinks she hears a smile in her voice.

“Do you regret it?”

“No. It hurt, but I learned things, things about myself, about what I want.” Lexa pauses again, but Clarke doesn’t think she’s angry anymore. “I guess now is as good a time as any. I met someone.”

“Oh?” 

“Yeah. Truth is, I met her a while ago, but it’s only gotten seriously recently…” Lexa trails off, but Clarke still reads her well. _“After you chose him over me, I let you go, gave myself to someone else.”_

Clarke takes mercy on her poor toe and forces her feet to remain on the bottom step, to talk about the things she doesn’t want to know but Lexa deserves to share. “Tell me about her.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

There’s definitely a smile in Lexa’s voice, almost a giggle. “Her name’s Costia. She’s an ecology PhD at Colombia. I’m going with her to Alaska this summer to be the camp doctor at her field station, some place called the Ice Nation. It’s way up north, past the north pole.” She’s practically babbling with excitement and it’s been a long time since Clarke’s heard her this way, not since the day she turned down the proposal.

“I’m happy for you,” Clarke says and actually means it. There will always be a part of her that loves Lexa, but there’s a bigger part that really just wants her to be happy. 

“This is weird,” Lexa says, echoing Clarke’s thoughts. 

“We were friends first,” Clarke points out, seizes the opportunity to start over. “I miss you.” 

“I miss you too.” Lexa pauses for a long, awkward moment. “How do we do this?”

She did it wrong a decade ago, cutting everyone out of her life, but Clarke wants to do it differently this time. She wants to answer Octavia’s letters, return Raven’s calls, keep this person she loves in her life. “I think we start small, check in every now and then.” Clarke laughs. “I saw a stupid cat video the other day. I’ll send it your way.”

Lexa chuckles too. “I look forward to it. You take care of yourself, okay?”

The door opens and Bellamy steps onto the porch, a loose board creaking under his feet. “I’m in good hands,” Clarke says, tries not to gasp when Bellamy settles behind her, strokes one of those hands down her bare arm.

“I’m glad. Talk soon.” 

“Bye.”

The line goes dead and Bellamy’s fingers slide under the neckline of her sweatshirt to cup one of her breasts, knead softly before rubbing the nipple with his thumb. Her head lolls against his shoulder and she loses herself in the touch and feel of him. The timing is terrible but she feels weightless – free – like she’s been absolved of the guilt of breaking Lexa’s heart. Bellamy’s other hand slips under the waistband of her sweatpants and she falls back against him, determined to let herself fly.

“You were on the phone a long time,” he murmurs against her throat. “Old friend from back east?”

Clarke stiffens, contemplates how to answer. She wants him to keep touching her, every nerve ending lighting up with each stroke of his calloused fingers over her skin, but today’s been all about truth telling and Bellamy deserves to know what she did with her heart during the past ten years. She slowly twines her hands with Bellamy’s and drops them into her lap. “Not a friend, an ex.” 

“Oh?” He unlocks their hands and slides one of his up her leg.

“Lexa. She heard about the shooting and called to make sure I’m okay.” His hand stills on her thigh and Clarke can practically hear the gears turning in his head. 

“Really?” he finally says. “Was it because of me?”

Clarke sighs. “It doesn’t work like that.”

He tilts her chin she has to meet his eyes, and she’s relieved to see only curiosity there. Even in Brooklyn, she’d faced her fair share of shocked expressions and rude questions when people found out she was dating a woman; she would have been devastated to see the same judgment in his eyes. “So tell me how it works.”

“I…” she starts, pauses while she synthesizes a year of her life into a few sentences. “I met this amazing person and she happened to be a woman. She was everything I was looking for: smart, funny, a bit of an edge. She had this huge heart and…” she trails off, realizing what attracted her to Lexa in the first place: her brilliant smile, her obsession with “The History Channel”, her flares of jealousy, her protective streak. They’re traits her ex shares with the man sitting at her side. “She was safe,” Clarke says softly, watches understanding replace the confusion in Bellamy’s eyes, thinks he finally gets why she ran so many years ago.

“But you’re still into men, right?”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “You were there this morning. What do you think?”

“I’m thinking I get why you moved in with Raven,” he says, and for a second she thinks he’ll ask her to have a threesome, like Finn, the guy she dated post-Lexa. After two months she’d had it, and on their last date, she’d thought about throwing her drink in his face, but picked up her jacket instead and stormed out of the Brooklyn Social, decided it was better being alone than wasting time on losers like him. 

But Bellamy’s smiling at her, a devious glint in his eyes, and she swats at him without heat. “You’re an idiot.” 

He shrugs and pulls her back against him, wraps his arms around her waist. “You’re sure it’s over.” 

In some ways it never really started, but whatever she and Lexa shared is firmly in the past. She turns her head to kiss him. “Yeah, it’s over,” she whispers against his mouth, slides into his lap so he falls back on his elbows to balance their weight, cradles his scratchy cheeks between her hands and kisses him in a rush of lips and tongue. She can’t say the words so she shows him everything she feels, that she can’t change what happened ten years ago, but she wants to build something new in this little cabin in the woods where she finally feels like herself. “You wanna go inside?” she asks, a little embarrassed by the husky tone of her voice.

He takes her hand and tugs her to her feet. “I thought you’d never ask.” 

He leads her to the bedroom and deposits her on the bed while he eases off his t-shirt, revealing inch after inch of golden skin and corrugated muscle. Clarke crosses her legs to keep it together. He slides out of his jeans and smiles down at her, tall and confident in nothing but black boxer-briefs. “You’re wearing too many clothes,” he says and reaches for her.

That night at the reservoir comes to mind, the dazed expression he wore as she stripped herself bare, and she decides that turnabout is fair play. She rolls off the bed and twists away from his grabbing hands, slowly pulls the sweatshirt over her head. She’s not wearing anything underneath it and his eyes darken at the sight of her bare breasts. She smiles cheekily and gives her hips a little shimmy as she takes off the sweatpants. She’s not wearing anything under them either and she doesn’t stop him from reaching for her this time.

They fall back on the bed, his body heavy and hard over hers, and he brushes her hair back from her face. “I’ve wanted this since the day you came back.” His hands are firm on her hips as his mouth travels the length of her body, nuzzling the shell of her ear and the curve of her shoulder, pausing to worship her breasts. He trails his tongue down her stomach, gently flicks his tongue over her bellybutton, presses a sucking kiss where her thighs meet.

“Bell,” she moans, tangling her fingers in his hair and adjusting his head to the exact right spot. He laughs, and the vibration of it makes her moan louder, causes his fingers to dig deeper into the swell of her hips. It doesn’t hurt, but it keeps her rooted in place, right where Bellamy wants her, always fully aware whose head is between her legs. The implication isn’t lost on her, even if she doesn’t have the concentration to think about it at the moment. She focuses on how much better Bellamy’s gotten at this over the years, the precise motion of his tongue and the pressure of his hands when he finally lets go of her hips and slides two fingers inside her. She’s practically levitating when he pulls away, slips a pillow under her lower back and rests his weight on his forearms.

“Not fair,” she pants, her body shaking with desire, so very close but not over the edge yet. 

“I’ve got something better in mind,” he says and cradles her face in his hands, kisses her hard as he pushes inside her. He gives her a moment to adjust and then starts moving, slow and steady, and her eyes drift closed as the coil of desire in her belly tightens. “Look at me,” he whispers. “Open your eyes.”

She looks at him from under heavy lids, gasps loudly as he pulls her legs over his shoulders, slides his hands under her hips and pulls her up as he increases the pace. He’s everywhere, thick and heavy inside her, eyes locked, his fingers gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. He watches her like he needs her to know exactly who’s making her skin prickle and her toes curl, urging that amazing tension to spark into flame through every inch of her body. He jerks and she tightens her legs around him, clutches his shoulders as he keeps hitting that exact right spot inside her, keeps her eyes open so he knows it’s only him that she sees. 

It’s a few minutes before they talk about it, after his hips have stopped stuttering and her legs fall back on the bed, after Clarke remembers her blissed out brain is still connected to her body and Bellamy rolls onto his back to keep from crushing her. She’s lying on her stomach, sprawled languidly across the mattress while Bellamy draws lazy circles across her lower back. It takes her another minute to realize there’s a pattern to his ministrations, that his fingers are tracing the outline of her tattoo.

“You didn’t get it removed,” he says softly, almost incredulously, and she can’t blame him. She cut away everything else of her of her old life; there would be no reason to think she kept such a permanent reminder.

“I tried three times,” she confesses. “I made it out of the waiting room once, even talked to the dermatologist, but when it came time to actually have the procedure, I never showed.” They’d also charged her $250 in cancellation fees, but she leaves that part out.

“What made you change your mind?” he asks, the strain in his voice undercutting the steady motions of his hands, the way the phoenix inked into her skin seems to burn at his touch.

She props her chin on his chest and peers down at his familiar face. “It’s a part of me,” she says softly, traces slow, steady circles across his chest. “Hard as I tried, I couldn’t forget where I came from. You were such an important part of my life…I know you don’t believe me but leaving was the hardest decision I ever made.”

He takes her hand and twists their fingers together so they rest on the muscled planes his chest. “I forgive you,” he says quietly, grips her hand tighter when her fingers tremble against his heart. “I don’t like it and I wish you’d stayed, but I get it.” He exhales, takes a moment to find his words. “I’m sorry I let it come to that. I should have – ” he starts, but she cuts him off with a finger to his lips.

“You were twenty, I was eighteen. We were just kids and we both made mistakes. I…” Clarke sucks in breath, stares into those beautiful dark eyes. “I don’t regret leaving, but I’m so sorry for hurting you.” 

Bellamy lets go of their hands so he can grip her hips and pull her closer. She winces, her skin still tender, and he frowns. “Sorry about that. Guess I got carried away.” 

Clarke shakes her head, smiles to show him that she understands. “You don’t have anything to prove.”

He pushes up on his elbows to kiss her, a tender brush of their mouths, and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear so he can see her entire face. “Last time, you didn’t give me any warning.”

“There’s a first time for everything, right?” She takes his hand, presses it firmly to her back where she bears his mark. “I’m here. I’m here with you.” 

He kisses her, harder this time, and they fall into that familiar rhythm. It’s no longer a surprise how easily they pick up where they left off. She’s been gone ten years but always carried him with her.

 

* * *

 

Bellamy drags her out of bed an hour later. “Get dressed,” he says and tosses a pile of clothes on the quilt. Clarke raises her eyebrows in response. She’d rather go naked than wear his ex’s clothes. “They’re Octavia’s,” he clarifies, and she shoos him away so she can get dressed without distractions. “Nothing I haven’t seen before,” he calls from the hall, but his phone is ringing and his voice dissipates as he disappears into the kitchen to take the call.

Clarke darts into the bathroom and takes a long look at herself in the mirror. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are overly bright and her mouth looks bee-stung, lips red and swollen against her fair skin. She looks satisfied and well-fucked, especially with her hair falling in tangled knots down her back. Bellamy’s left her drugstore bag on the counter and she makes quick work of the brush, plaiting her hair into a neat braid. She washes up quickly before sliding into a pair of the drugstore underwear. They’re bright blue and come up past her navel, but they’re clean and it’s really all she cares about. Octavia is her height but Clarke’s curvier, and the jeans are almost too tight and her boobs are nearly falling out of the tank top, and she puts on a cardigan that doesn’t match in a flimsy attempt to protect her modesty. 

Bellamy smiles broadly when he sees her, eyes dropping to the low-cut neckline of her tank without breaking his concentration. He nods along at whatever the other caller is saying, rubs his eyes as the voice gets louder and shriller. “How’s Octavia?” Clarke mouths, leans against the doorjamb and smiles back.

“I’m putting her on speaker,” he says and rests the phone on the table, ignores Clarke’s panicked motions. She’s in too good a mood to deal with Octavia’s ribbing.

“Hey O,” Clarke says wearily and pushes away from the wall to drop into Bellamy’s lap.

Octavia huffs. “I’m glad you two could stop banging each other’s brains out long enough to tell me that you’re okay.”

Even though Octavia can’t see her, Clarke still buries her red cheeks in Bellamy’s shoulder. “We’re fine,” he tells his sister. “What about you?”

“Lincoln won’t let me out of his sight.” She sounds annoyed, but that kind of fake annoyed that means she’s resenting needing a babysitter but reveling in the attention. Clarke snuggles closer to her own babysitter.

“The Reaper’s growing on me,” Bellamy says and Clarke can hear Octavia’s eye roll through the phone line. It reminds her of the beginning, spending time with Bellamy and his shadow, the gangly limbed little sister that dogged his every step. It had been part of what drew her to Bellamy, his love for Octavia, pure and true and unconditional. She remembers how much she’d wanted it for herself, hopes deep down inside that she hasn’t lost her chance. 

“You’re coming back tomorrow, right?” Octavia’s voice crackles through the distance between them.

Clarke can’t quite repress the flinch, and Bellamy’s hand slides beneath the waistband of her absurdly low-waisted jeans, strokes lightly over her skin. “Yeah,” he confirms, never slowing the steady motion of his hand. “We leave at first light.” Clarke works to repress a shudder. She knew this wasn’t permanent, but she doesn’t want to think about the world she left behind, all the things waiting for her in Arkadia, the decisions she’ll have to make and the guilt she’ll have to face. When Bellamy touches her so sweet and gentle, she thinks she could stay here forever. “Talk soon, O,” Bellamy says and Octavia chirps a goodbye, and then it’s just them in the cabin.

He smiles up at her. “When did you and O make up?”

“A week or so back? It’s a lot of work staying angry. We decided to bury the hatchet.” She still hates lying, but she won’t break Octavia’s confidence either.

A frown forms between his brows. “You’re not telling me the whole story, but I’m gonna let it slide. I’m glad you’re getting along.”

“Just girl stuff,” she says, not a lie even if it’s not the whole truth. “Now your mother…”

Bellamy groans, drops his forehead to her shoulder. “I’m happy about that too, but we’re not talking about my mother.”

“What do you want to do?” She means it as a joke – she already knows they’ll end up back in the bedroom – but he has something else in mind.

“We’re going out.”

She stiffens in his arms. “Outside…is that a good idea? Is it safe?”

He smiles, that boyish smile that captured her heart a decade ago, and takes her hand. “Do you trust me?” 

“Yeah,” she says, without hesitation, like it’s as natural as breathing, and that smile only gets brighter. “I really do.”

“Then come on,” he says and tugs her to her feet, lets go of her hand only so she can put on a jacket and boots, and leads her to his bike. She takes the helmet and yanks it over her braid, leans into him as the bike pulls out of the yard and clings to him like she’d follow him anywhere, because right now she will, follow him wherever he goes.

They end up at a tiny bar in a tinier town, where no one knows their names or asks questions about who they are. They can be themselves when they drink beer and nibble peanuts, slow dance under the dim lights to old country songs.

_“Today, I started loving you again_  
_I'm right back where I've really always been_  
_I got over you just long enough to let my heartache mend_  
_Then, today I started loving you again”_

Bellamy clasps her hand and pulls her into his chest, settles one hand low on her back. As a boy, he was a terrible dancer and he’s not much better as an adult, but it doesn’t matter, not when he’s holding her so close, when she fits perfectly into the contours of his chest, when his shoulder feels strong and steady under her cheek, when his feet still find a way to move in time with hers.

He bends his head and kisses her, sweet and gentle, filled with all the things he’s never stopped feeling. “It’s always been you,” she says softly, finally understanding why it never worked with Finn or Lexa or the men that came before them, not when she gave her heart away a long time ago and never really got it back.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says and she nods briefly, lets him lead her off the dance floor and back to the bike. Her braid whips across her back, body bending and weaving with Bellamy’s as they take each windy turn, their bodies a single entity as they roar down the highway.

It’s different this time, so slow and tender as they strip off their clothes and fall back on the bed. Tomorrow they go back to Arkadia, to the club and Mountaineers and the sinking guilt of Myles’ death, but they still have tonight, the firm mattress beneath her back and the molten silk of Bellamy’s body sliding over hers, and Clarke arches into the sheets and lets go.

Bellamy brushes a kiss over her ankle and nuzzles his way up her calf, presses another kiss to a bruise on her shin. “So this is what it’s like kissing me,” he teases, rubs his chin against her stubble. Clarke had other things on her mind in the shower earlier, not to mention a lack of razors, but her embarrassment fades as he works his way over her knee, to the soft skin of her thighs. 

“Body of a woman,” he whispers into the curve of her inner thigh, sucking lightly at her sensitive skin. The first time she’d been in his bedroom, she’d laughed at the book of Neruda poetry she’d found nestled between biographies of Theodore Roosevelt, because seriously? There was only one reason a teenage boy would have erotic poetry, and she’d decided then and there that it wouldn’t have an effect on her, the way it likely had on other girls, but Bellamy had noticed her staring and pulled out the slim volume. “Body of a woman,” he’d read, his smirk widening as her cheeks flushed and she’d shifted uncomfortably on his bed. “He was more than a poet,” Bellamy had said. “He was a fighter, a revolutionary until his dying day.” _“Body of a woman,”_ he’d whispered against the fragile bones of her wrist.

“Body of a woman,” he repeats, dragging his warm, wet mouth across her skin. “White hills, white thighs,” he murmurs, pushes her legs open wider and gets to work. It’s better than any time before, and she swears, as she comes to pieces between his hands, he’s recited the entire poem with his tongue.

It’s still different when he slides inside her. She’s sitting in his lap and he doesn’t move so much as he rocks, unhurried but deliberate, without ever breaking eye contact. 

It’s not like before. He doesn’t need her to see him, to know he’s the man buried inside her. It’s not about any of that. It’s about feeling like every part of him has become part of her, like they’re one person, perfect complements, breathing each other’s air while their hearts beat to the same furious rhythm. They come together, mouths fused and moaning each other’s names, still woven together as they fall back on the bed to catch their breath.

He curls around her, arms wrapped firmly across her breasts and their legs tangled up together. Against her back, his chest rises and falls to an irregular tempo, and his breath teases the hair at the nape of her neck. She’s sated and boneless, unable to keep her eyes open, and she slides into a dreamless sleep she hopes will never end.

 

* * *

 

Bellamy’s quiet the next morning when he shakes her awake at dawn, quiet still when he follows her into the shower and fucks her against the cool tile. She rests her cheek on the wall, his chest pressed against her back and his hips setting a bruising rhythm. She closes her eyes and tries to memorize the feel of him inside her, his body wrapped around hers, his lips whispering her name like a prayer. 

He tells her to pack her things and they’re the first words he’s said all morning. Clarke dutifully dries off and gets dressed, finds him smoking again when she joins him on the front porch, hair neatly braided and her few belongings stowed in her bag. She’s wearing the scrubs she arrived in, but added Bellamy’s sweatshirt for warmth, and his indifferent expression flickers for the smallest of moments when he sees her in his clothes. He flinches slightly when she climbs behind him on the bike, her arms and legs almost fusing with his.

He’s silent again when they stop for breakfast, even when she buys one of those 1,000 calorie cinnamon buns that she knows he loves. He sits like a statue on the bench, drinking coffee and smoking yet another cigarette. Clarke stares at the cloudless sky and tries not to cry.

They pull up at Raven’s just past 9:00 am and it’s Clarke that flinches when the bike rolls to a stop and Bellamy’s holding out a hand to help her off. She stands there for a moment on the curb, trying to read his thoughts through the dark lenses of his sunglasses, trying to decide what she wants, if the past two days were real or just a passing dream, if she wants them to be something more.

“What now?” she finally asks.

Bellamy’s slow to answer, taking off his helmet and sunglasses first, so she can see the torment in his dark eyes. He’s trying to hide it behind a stoic expression but she knows him well, and he can’t hide from her. “I guess that’s up to you,” he says softly and the mask cracks so she can see everything he’s feeling written all over his face.

It’s a face she loves, freckles and high-cheekbones and a smile more blinding than the sun, and she hates hurting the man behind it, but Bellamy stares down at her, patiently waiting for her answer. His jaw is tight and his eyes are shining with tears, but he doesn’t push. It’s not ten years ago. He’s here and he’s asking, willing to let her go if it’s what she wants, so long as she says goodbye. 

Clarke takes a breath, embraces what she’s always known but wasn’t ready to admit. “I think you should come inside,” she says softly and a hint of a smile begins to curve his lips. She reaches on her tiptoes and brushes a butterfly kiss to his mouth. 

He smiles and cups her face in his hands, deepens the kiss until she’s breathless and wanting. “Okay,” he says and that smile is so bright it hurts her eyes.

She takes his hand and leads him up the path, opens the door to something new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got so confident from the sex scene in the last chapter that I wrote two more! Huzzah! Actually, the sex was planned all along, but your kind words made them slightly less agonizing to write. Still feel free to send tips my way. Thank you as always for the amazing support for this fic. I’m learning so much about my abilities as a writer and it’s in large part thanks to the wonderful feedback that I receive. Enjoy.
> 
>  **Health Update** : I’m finally having back surgery next week so the next update will likely be in two weeks, depending on how I feel and how lucid I am post-surgery. So if you don’t see a new chapter up next week, I’m not on hiatus, just taking a break to convalesce.


	7. Chapter 7

 

* * *

 

It’s nothing Clarke hasn’t seen before – opening the front door, locking it firmly behind her, dropping her keys on the hall table – but it feels different with Bellamy at her side. He follows her into the house, smiles down at her when she pushes a wayward lock off his forehead. “You need a haircut,” she says, does her best to smooth his dark curls. 

He nuzzles his rough jaw into her neck. “Later.” He gives her hip a nudge and flips her around, so her back slams into the door and he has better access to her skin. “Much, much later.”

“Ahem.” Raven clears her throat and stands in front of them wearing a cynical expression. Clarke remembers the last time her friend found them together and reaches down to clasp Bellamy’s hand, put up a visible united front. If Raven notices she doesn’t comment, just runs the short distance between them and throws herself at her friend; Clarke’s back slams against the door for a different reason. 

Clarke slowly returns the hug, stomach knotting as she remembers all the things Raven’s suffered for her: a man died on her front lawn, her house was a crime scene, her friend disappeared without a goodbye. “Everything’s okay here?” The people that tried to kill her are still out there. Her stomach clenches tighter at the thought of them trying again. 

Raven nods. “The police have been stopping by. They took the tape down last night. I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” Clarke whispers.

“Octavia activated the phone tree and made sure that I heard.” Raven turns to Bellamy and actually smiles at him. “I’m glad you were with her.”

Bellamy drapes his arm over Clarke’s shoulders and presses a kiss to her temple. “I am too.”

Raven’s eyebrows rise suggestively. “Looks like someone got down to business in the woods."

Clarke opens her mouth to tell Raven that it’s none of _her_ business, but a tall, blond man wearing nothing but a pair of boxers steps into the hall and diverts their attention. “Hey, Reyes,” he says, absently scratching at his head. “Where’s the coffee?”

In all the years of their friendship, Clarke has never seen Raven blush, but her face turns the color of a tomato and she suddenly finds the floor fascinating. Clarke studies the newcomer with interest. In high school, Raven had favored floppy-haired navel-gazers, but this guy is all lean muscle and scruff, the kind of man that works with his hands, and she’s never seen her friend so out of her element.

“I’m Clarke,” she says and extends a hand, watches Raven continue to examine her toes. 

“Kyle.” His handshake is firm and it makes Clarke like him instantly. He nods at Bellamy. “Hey Blake.”

“Wick,” Bellamy nods back. “Reyes,” he says to Raven, doesn’t bother keeping the smirk off his face.

“Wick and I work together,” Raven says hurriedly, flicks away the hand Kyle lets rest low on her hip. “He’s helping me fix the furnace.”

Kyle rolls his eyes and puts his hand back. “Right, I’m helping with the heat.” He does something with that hand that makes Raven squeak, and Clarke and Bellamy exchange a knowing look. 

“I think that’s our cue,” Clarke says, takes Bellamy’s hand and pulls him down the hall to her room. There’s a crash somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen, and Clarke flops down on her bed with a groan. “I hope they didn’t break anything.” She tugs on Bellamy’s hand but he stays rooted in place. 

He offers her a regretful smile. “I actually have to go.” 

She grips his hand a little tighter, heart plummeting through her chest from the constant risk that comes with loving Bellamy Blake. She bites her lower lip to keep it from trembling, and his smile softens as he brushes the fingers of his free hand down her cheek. “It’s just a meeting,” he says gently, but with confidence, like he _believes_ he’ll come back to her. “I’ll see you later,” he whispers, brushes a kiss over her forehead. 

Clarke doesn’t let go of his hand, follows him out onto the front step and watches him roar away until his taillights are a red blur and the only sound is the distant hum of a neighbor’s lawnmower. It reminds her a bit of the cabin, all fresh air and blue skies, and she tilts her head back to bask in the sun. It’s nice, for all of ten seconds before she spots a dark stain out of the corner of her eye. It mars the otherwise smooth surface of the driveway and she tracks its progress into the grass, a bucket resting beside it, and her hands begin to shake. 

She sinks to her knees, chest heaving, can’t seem to stop staring at that stain even though it’s a struggle to breathe. She thought she could leave the shooting behind when they left the cabin, make a fresh start the way she’s doing with Bellamy, but it’s impossible to forget when faced with solid proof. She grabs the bucket, relieved to find it filled with soapy water, and scrubs desperately at the driveway. The bubbles turn a filmy red and it only makes her scrub harder, so her arms ache and tears burn her eyes. She’s dimly aware of footsteps behind her, and Kyle calling out a quick goodbye, and especially Raven’s arms wrapping around her. 

“Shhh,” Raven murmurs. “Just let it out.” Clarke buries her face in her friend’s shoulder and sobs.

“Where’s Kyle?” Clarke asks when she pulls back, wipes the tears from her cheeks.

“He went to work.”

“I didn’t mean to scare him away.”

Raven shrugs. “It’s not a thing. He’s free to go where he pleases.”

Clarke’s eyes water again. She might be off the hook when it comes to Raven’s love life, but not the mess she brought into her house. “I’m so sorry,” she says, gestures in the general area of the lawn. “I put you in dang – ” Her voice breaks and she furiously brushes at her cheeks.

“It’s okay,” Raven says and squeezes Clarke’s hand. 

“No, it’s not. Because of me, someone died at your house. _You_ could have died. Why are you letting me off the hook so easy?”

Raven draws her knees to her chest, glances at the stain on her driveway. “I was pissed at first.” She shakes her head, pulls her knees in closer. “But every time I tried to get mad, really mad, I couldn’t feel it. I realized no matter how much I blamed you, it would never be as much as you already blamed yourself.” 

“You should. Myles died because of me.” She pauses to study the pavement. “I ruined your driveway too.”

“Nah. Nothing a little elbow grease can’t fix.” 

Clarke casts another look at the stain, all that’s left of a boy with gangly limbs and a crooked smile. It’s hard to believe that two days ago, she was teasing him about carrying her groceries. “He was a good kid.”

“Yeah, he was,” Raven says softly. “I like to think of him as Myles the Friendly Ghost now.” Her face is serious but her tone is light, and it makes Clarke smile just the tiniest bit. She laughs, a small rumble of her shoulders, and when she looks up, Raven’s smiling too.

“Want some help?” Raven asks, cocks her head towards the bucket. “I started last night, but got distracted.” Her cheeks flush again.

“I’d like that.”

Together, they dump the bucket and fetch fresh water, scrub at the stain until only a slight ring is left. Clarke sucks in a breath and for the first time, she considers dropping her crusade. She stayed in Arkadia to bring her father’s killers to justice, and it’s already cost someone his life. She glances at Raven, the girl that took her in, gave her the forgiveness she doesn’t deserve. She leans into her friend, lets Raven carry her yet again, and it’s a choice she doesn’t want to make. She already lost her father. She’ll never forgive herself if it means losing another person that she loves.

 

* * *

 

After Raven leaves for work, Clarke takes a long shower and scrubs the stench of death from her skin. She keeps seeing the dark stain on the driveway, the permanent reminder of the tragedy that constantly trails in her wake. Her dad’s death isn’t on her, but Myles’ is, and it’s not over yet. When she dials her mom’s number, she bites the inside of her cheek to keep from crying again.

“Hi Mom,” she whispers and sinks onto the couch.

“Oh, honey,” Abby breathes. “It’s so good to hear your voice. You’re okay?”

“I’m at Raven’s.”

“It’s okay to stay there?” In the background there’s a loud bang that makes Clarke jump.

“Where are you? What was that noise?” 

Abby’s voice is calm, soothing, when she comes back on the line. “I’m in my office at the hospital. It was just the door closing. I’m more worried about you.”

Clarke twines the phone cord around her finger and avoids the question. “I’m fine. Wells is coming over later to talk about the case.”

“Good, good,” Abby breathes. “He stayed over last night, on the couch of course. He’s a good man. I’m glad he’s a part of your life.”

“He is a good man,” Clarke agrees. The cord tightens around her finger hard enough to hurt, gauge a red welt into her skin, but it doesn’t distract her from the news she still needs to share. “Bellamy and I are back together.” Her mother is quiet and Clarke pushes forward. “It’s still new but it’s real. I wanted you to know.”

“You remember what happened last time, right?” Clarke cringes while she waits for the inevitable lecture, but Abby doesn’t yell. She doesn’t sound angry either, but concerned, like this time her daughter will end up in jail or even worse.

Clarke blinks to drive away the memory of Myles dying in her arms. “It’s different this time,” she says, surprises even herself at the confidence in her voice, realizes just how much she wants it to work.

“If you say so,” Abby replies, but she still sounds worried. 

Outside, a car door slams dully. “Wells is here. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Tell him hi for me.” Abby pauses. “I love you honey.”

“I know,” Clarke says through a veil of tears and hangs up before she says something she regrets. She wasn’t prepared for this, any of this, but especially the onslaught of emotions that interacting with Abby brings. Her anger is a fiery thing, burning wild and raw deep in her chest, but her mother is a steady strength, cool hands and kind words and arms that hold her so tight she sometimes can’t breathe. It makes it even harder to keep her at an arms length. 

She’s just wiping her eyes when Wells knocks on the front door wearing a grim smile but determined expression; he makes her check the peephole before telling her to open the door. Clarke rolls her eyes at him. “I lived on my own for ten years, Jaha. I know a thing or two about personal safety.”

He ignores her and throws his arms around her for a forceful hug, buries his face in her neck and acts so unlike his usual controlled self that she awkwardly pats the back of his head to let him know that it’s okay. “I didn’t get to do that the other day.” He pulls back to examine her face. “Something’s changed.”

She flushes and closes the door behind him. “I’ll tell you about it.” 

Wells follows her into the living room. “You’re sure you want this?”

Clarke can’t help the way her eyes sparkle or the enormous grin that breaks out across her face. Even if she can’t see herself, it’s the same look she wore in the cabin, a girl in the blush of new love. She doesn’t duck her head, lets Wells see how she feels, how she’s let Bellamy back into her life. 

“I think I always have.” 

Wells sighs heavily, like he did in high school when she told him that her thing with “that Blake kid” was serious, but he doesn’t try and talk her out of it this time. “You’re the grown up,” he says and starts for the living room. “I’m here when you need me.”

“Hopefully it won’t come to that.” She curls into a corner of the couch and pushes her damp hair over one shoulder.

“How are you doing?” 

“Okay,” she confesses, tugs on a loose thread in Raven’s grandmother’s afghan. “The shock’s gone, but the guilt’s setting in.” She meets his sympathetic eyes. “I’m learning to live with it.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” 

Clarke takes a breath, prepares to tell him the truth she already told the Skaikru. “Yes, it was. Diana Sydney is running an organ trafficking ring out of St. Finneus’. A doctor and security guard are in on it, maybe Chief Shumway too.” Her voice trembles as she recounts what happened to Myles. “The Mountaineers were providing security and they tried to kill me because I saw them at the hospital.” She lets her theory hang in the air, waits for Wells shocked rebuttal, but he calmly nods instead. “You knew?”

Well’s normally impassive face turns various shades of guilty. “Bellamy told me.”

“When?” Clarke snaps.

“While you were at the cabin,” Wells says carefully. “We’re looking into it.”

She drops the blanket and crosses her arms over her chest, cheeks flushed with fury. “Were you going to mention it to me?”

“Clarke – ” He starts.

“No,” she interrupts. “You do not get to keep this from me. I’m the one that figured it out. I’m the one that almost died!” 

“We’re just trying to keep you safe.”

“Last I checked, I’m capable of thinking for myself and making my own decisions.” Wells expression changes, something like fear setting in, and Clarke loses some steam. “I get it,” she says softly. “I know you were scared – I was too – but that doesn’t mean you can cut me out of the decision making process. It’s my life, my dad…this princess in the tower act? It stops now.”

“Okay,” Wells says, both looking and sounding defeated. “I get it. No secrets from here on out.” 

She falls back on the couch cushions. “But do tell, what have you learned so far?”

“Not much,” Wells admits. “Our forensic accountant is looking at the hospital’s financials. I’m hoping she’ll find something we can use.”

“What about Emerson?” 

Wells sighs again. “Nothing conclusive. He has an alibi. It’s probably fake, but they’re willing to swear to it in court.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she curses and Wells doesn’t look any happier. “There’s nothing you can do?”

“If Mel finds something, we might be able to get a warrant for the hospital’s accounts, but until then, we can’t do much but wait and see. I don’t think they’ll try anything again, but we’re putting protection on you either way.” He pauses, looks pained when he speaks again. “Is Bellamy staying here?”

Clarke smiles kindly, understanding the effort it took for him to ask the question. Bellamy and Wells have never been friends, jealous of the hold the other had on her heart, and it makes that heart both swell and clench – she loves that they’re working together, but wishes the circumstances were different. “I think so. Yes.”

Wells exhales deeply. “You’ll never hear me say this again, but I’m glad to hear it. I still think he’s an asshole but I trust him to protect you.”

Clarke lightly swats his shoulder. “Look at you. Soon, you’ll be making each other friendship bracelets.” 

He rolls his eyes and pushes to his feet, bends to press a kiss to her cheek. “Call if you see or hear anything.” He looks at her sternly. “ _Anything_.”

“I know, I know,” she huffs as she walks him out. She watches the straight line of his back as he treads to the cruiser, solid and steady like he’s always been, a source of strength through all the trying times of her life. She’ll need him even more in the coming days. But she needs herself too, the brain that got her through med school and residency, the skills she learned from ten years on her own. She’s not the same girl that wouldn’t take off her sundress at the reservoir. It’s time she remembered that.

She calls the hospital and takes off the rest of the week. It’s a Thursday and she plans to use the next three days to her advantage, starting with Raven’s color printer. She wedges her desk between the bed and window and turns the blank, white wall into her version of a corkboard. There are photos of the important players, and all the public records she could locate online, and an entire post-it pad worth of notes. She finds some twine in the garage and connects the dots, Sydney and Tsing and Emerson, but her gut aches because she still can’t prove that they’re guilty. 

She’s studying her work when Bellamy comes in just before midnight. “Hi Carrie Mathison,” he says and drops a kiss to the top of her head. “Uncovered any conspiracies while I was gone?”

“Hmmn,” Clarke says absently, eyes flitting between Diana Sydney and Carl Emerson’s shifty expressions. “Sorry.” She steps away from the corkboard. “What were you saying?”

Bellamy smiles. “Nothing important.” He nods at the wall. “You’ve been busy.”

“Just doing my part.” She watches him carefully, waits to see if he’ll admit to maneuvering behind her back, but he smiles wearily as he drops her keys on the nightstand. He’s unscathed but exhausted, and Clarke contemplates delaying the confrontation, continues to mull it over when she retreats into the bathroom to get ready for bed.

Even if she doesn’t agree with the boys’ decision, she understands it. As teenagers, Bellamy had always swept club “business” under the rug, and she’d never pushed to know more. It was a part of him that terrified her, even as she got caught up in the thrill of being with a man on the other side of the law, but she knew, even at eighteen, that the slightest hint of truth and she’d find herself burned away to ash or wearing the same broken expression as Aurora. But she’s not a teenager anymore and she’s seen things – _survived_ – things and she can’t let it go. 

He slides into bed next to her. “I had a key made,” he says and brushes a kiss to her neck.

“I was going to do that tomorrow,” Clarke says, inhales sharply as his mouth moves down the column of her throat.

“What else did you do today?” He sucks softly on a pulse point, gentle enough so it won’t leave a mark, but hard enough to make her moan.

“I saw Wells,” she manages to say, tilts her head back into the pillow.

“What’d he have to say?” He feigns ignorance and trails wet kisses down her shoulder, like he’s not keeping anything from her, like there are no secrets between them.

Clarke grows tired of the game, annoyed by his charade and her own behavior. If she wants him to be honest with her, she can’t play coy with him. “You should have told me that you’re working with him.”

Bellamy sighs and rolls to his back. “I was trying to protect you.”

“I get that, but you can’t keep things from me.” She shifts to her side and their shoulders brush. 

“I thought you didn’t want to know,” Bellamy says softly. “You said what the club did stayed with the club.” 

“I’m not that girl anymore,” she reminds him. “I’m a part of this now and I need to know what’s going on. Emerson’s on the loose, and Diana Sydney and her crew aren’t in jail.” She reaches for his hand, draws it under the waistband of her pajama bottoms to rest over the phoenix branded into her skin. “I’m part of this life now. There can’t be secrets between us.”

“You’re sure?” he asks. “If we do this, you’re going to need to know everything, not just what you think you can handle. All of it. That’s the only way this can work.”

Clarke hesitates a few seconds, not to debate her choice but prepare herself for the aftermath. There’ll be no going back from this, no way to be with Bellamy and live in the vague. She’ll be all in, the way she wouldn’t let herself fall ten years in the past. “Okay,” she whispers. “Tell me everything.”

It starts with a deep breath and fear in his eyes, but Bellamy doesn’t back down. “Emerson’s a sneaky son-of-a-bitch,” he says, watching her carefully, relaxing only when she gives him a small nod. “We’re working on a permanent solution.” He doesn’t need to elaborate for Clarke to understand that Emerson will no longer be amongst the living.

“Wells says he has an alibi.” Her lip curls in disgust. She can’t believe Emerson’s caused so much damage and still roaming free.

Bellamy rolls to his side and curves a hand over her hip so she turns with him. “We’re going to keep you safe,” he promises. 

She’s not worried about staying safe – she’s seen the club, knows what they can do – she’s worried about the people she loves. “Do you think he killed my dad?” If Jake died because he figured out Diana Sydney’s scheme, the Mountaineers likely masterminded it. 

He pauses, like he’s trying to avoid telling the truth, but their agreement hangs heavy in the air and he brushes his fingers lightly over her skin. “Yeah, I think he did.” 

The truth hurts but it’s better than living in the dark, and she knew the cost when Bellamy agreed to her terms. She just didn’t think it would be such a sharp stab, knowing Emerson killed the best person in her life, that he tried to kill her too, and he’s out there somewhere, alive and free while her father is rotting to dust and bones under six feet of hard-packed earth. She’s unprepared for the tears that spill down her cheeks, and she sobs a little harder when Bellamy pulls her into his arms and tucks her into the curve of his chest. “I’m going to fix this,” he whispers into her hair. 

Clarke wipes her tears and rests her forehead against Bellamy’s. “We’re going to fix this together.” 

“You’re sure?” he asks one last time, gives her a final out. Knowing is one thing, but doing is an entirely different kind of sacrifice.

She slides against his hips and rises over him, bends at the waist to bring her mouth down to his. “Together,” she promises and seals her vow with a kiss.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Clarke stumbles into the kitchen to find Raven drinking coffee at the kitchen table. She slides a mug across the table when Clarke slips into an empty chair, stoically regards her while stirring half & half into her coffee. 

“Saw Bellamy this morning.”

Clarke blows on her own coffee. “He stayed over last night.”

“Is it going to be a permanent thing?” 

Clarke doesn’t like Raven’s accusing tone or the disappointed look in her eyes but she remembers their conversation only a few days ago, in the same kitchen, discussing the same fears, and she decides not to hold it against her friend. She smiles hopefully. “I thought he and Wick could carpool, save money on gas.” 

Raven’s fingers tighten around the handle of her mug. “I like Bellamy. He’s not a bad guy. But the life he leads? It’s no good for you.” 

“It’s different this time,” Clarke says again, still surprised by the conviction in her voice. 

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Raven smiles tightly but she doesn’t sound convinced.

Clarke hides her face in her mug and takes an enthusiastic gulp. She hopes she does too.

 

* * *

 

Wells calls later that day with an update from Mel. She’s found something but it will take a couple days to get a warrant for the records and comb through them. Clarke squeals like when she was twelve and got tickets to NSYNC for her birthday while Wells winces and says he’ll call back when he has more news. She’s just starting to update her corkboard accordingly when her concentration is broken by the rhythmic tap of stiletto boots on Raven’s slate walk. After a quick trip to the peephole, she opens the door.

“Hi Aurora – ” she starts but the other woman pushes past her and takes stock of the house, the afghan tossed casually on the couch and Raven and Kyle’s empty beer bottles languishing on the coffee table; on the walk to the kitchen, she surreptitiously closes her bedroom door to keep Aurora’s prying eyes away from the corkboard. “What are you doing here?” she tries again as Aurora slips on rubber gloves and starts washing the coffee mugs in the sink. 

When she’s finished, Aurora calmly strips off the gloves and rests her hips against the sink, watching Clarke with open disgust. “You in the habit of opening the door for strangers?”

She looks so much like her son that Clarke has to bite her cheek to keep from smiling. “You’re not a stranger and I checked the peephole before I let you in.”

Aurora glances around the kitchen, noting the window over the sink and the backdoor that opens to a small yard. “This place isn’t safe.”

Clarke holds her ground. “There’s a patrol car outside and I’ll call Sterling if I go anywhere.” She raises her chin. “Bellamy and I talked about it. We’re in agreement that it’s fine to stay here.” Aurora cocks an eyebrow and Clarke resents her even more; it’s a skill she always wishes she possessed. “Bellamy and I are a team,” Clarke adds, raises both eyebrows and stares back.

Aurora regards her for a long while, her eyes lingering for an extended moment on Clarke’s face, before crossing her arms over her chest. “Get dressed,” she says and starts putting the cereal back in the pantry.

She could protest, but she knows she’ll lose anyway, so Clarke meekly goes to her room to change. When she comes back dressed in jeans and a tank top, she finds Aurora sitting at the kitchen table cleaning a gun. 

“What are you doing?” Clarke hisses and looks left and then right, even though they’re alone in the house. “Put that away!”

Aurora calmly continues cleaning the gun. “You need to protect yourself.”

Clarke doesn’t disagree. She has Bellamy and Wells and there’s a self-defense class at the local Y that she signed up to take, all the right precautions without keeping a firearm in her house. “I don’t need a gun.” The chair squeaks painfully across the floor as Clarke plops down in it.

“This is a Glock 19, the compact version of the 9mm.” Aurora looks pointedly at Clarke’s tightly clasped hands. “It’s good for people with small hands.” She runs a finger over the chamber. “It holds a fifteen round magazine, but you can go as high as thirty-three.” She slides the gun across the table. “Give it a whirl.”

“I’m not touching it.”

Aurora smiles tightly. “Someone tried to kill you, sweetheart. The boys are doing their best, but nothing is absolute. You need to protect yourself,” she says again.

Clarke stares at the gun gleaming an oily black on the same table where she shared a cup of coffee with Raven that morning, where Myles ate breakfast just two days earlier. It makes her chest ache thinking of never having that time with Raven again.

“Pick it up,” Aurora prods and Clarke slowly wraps her fingers around the grip, tests its weight in her hand. It’s lighter than she expected, less than a pound unloaded and they haven’t put the bullets in yet. “How’s it feel?”

Clarke studies the trigger and the barrel, tries to memorize every millimeter of the weapon in her hands. “There’s no serial number,” she snaps.

Across the table, Aurora shrugs. “If you use it, you won’t want it traced back to you.”

“It’s illegal to carry a concealed weapon without permit!” Clarke carefully puts the gun back on the table.

“You planning on telling anyone about it?”

“No, but – ”

“But nothing. You need a gun, end of story. Get your purse.”

“This is insane!” Clarke sputters, but Aurora looks at her like she’s a moron and she hangs her head while going to get her things. She’s silent in the car, hunting for state license plates on the highway, feeling very much like she’s seventeen-years-old again. She and Bellamy had been reading on his bed – _Rebecca_ and some old journal of his dad’s – when Aurora had caught them. From the expression on her face, they probably should have been naked, but she’d only stared at them down and ordered Clarke to get in the car for an equally silent ride home. Ten years later, the issue over the journal is still a mystery, and Clarke makes a mental note to ask Bellamy about it later. 

“The TonDC reservation?” Clarke asks half an hour later when Aurora stops the SUV beside a scraggly meadow. 

“We have a relationship,” Aurora says and gets out of the car. She pulls a sack of empty beer cans from the trunk and trudges into the field in those ridiculous boots. “You coming?” she asks and cocks an eyebrow again.

Clarke sighs and follows her onto the sad excuse for grass, watches Aurora set up the cans on a series of posts, realizes she’s not the first person that learned to shoot in this field. She imagines smaller versions of Bellamy and Octavia standing in the same meadow, legs braced and arms steady as they blasted away at Pabst and Coors Light empties. No matter her problems with Abby, she’s grateful it took her this long to end up here.

Aurora comes up behind her and pulls the gun from her purse, shows Clarke how to load the clip and click the safety off. She shows Clarke how to stand and aim, how to minimize the recoil. “You ready?”

Clarke’s hands are sweaty from gripping the gun but she resists the urge to rub her palms on her jeans. She can do this. She has to. If it’s her life or Emerson’s, she’ll choose herself every time. “Okay,” she says softly, lines up the target like Aurora showed her and pulls the trigger. She misses the can by the long shot and the recoil hums down her arm, but she’s too distracted by the adrenaline rush to notice. “That was amazing,” she says, can’t keep the grin off her face, feeling a little like when she won the science fair in the eighth grade, like she was on top of the world, like nothing could stop her. But reality sets in and she realizes what she did – she fired a gun! – and guilt seeps through the rush. “Am I horrible for feeling that?” she asks, winces when she realizes she said the words aloud. 

Aurora’s face is impassive as she comes over. “It’s no small thing, discharging a weapon,” she says, frowning when she sees just how off the mark Clarke’s attempts were. “Your aim is shit. Keep practicing.” She crosses her arms and gestures at the cans. “We don’t have all day.”

Clarke grits her teeth, tamps down the urge to remind Aurora that it’s her _first time firing a gun_ but then she remembers how the other woman looked at her in the cabin’s kitchen, the pride in her eyes because she didn’t give up, and it gives Clarke the confidence to try again. She keeps missing but Aurora is patient, even sharing pointers and tips until she hits every can. Before they return to the car, Aurora even throws an arm over her shoulders and squeezes briefly, and Clarke realizes what happened at the cabin wasn’t a fluke. Aurora will never be easy, but she’s family, and she’ll always have her back in that controlling Blake way. It’s something she’ll need to get used to, how the Blakes insert themselves into every aspect of her life, because five minutes after Aurora drops her off, another one shows up to tell her what to do. 

“Shit!” Clarke exclaims and stuffs the gun in the back of her jeans. She’d been debating where to store it – hall closet, nightstand, her purse – but the loud pounding on her front door doesn’t let up and the decision gets delayed. 

“I know you’re in there, Clarke,” Octavia shouts. “Open up.”

Clarke opens the door to find Octavia and her Reaper boyfriend on the front step. The former is holding two sacks of groceries and the latter is holding two cases of beer, and they both look a little annoyed. 

“You gonna let us in?” Octavia cocks her head at the bags. “This shit is heavy.” As if Clarke needed further demonstration, the boyfriend shifts the enormous cases of beer he’s carrying.

“Of course, of course,” she says, holds open the door and follows them into the house. Octavia is unpacking her groceries and the Reaper is making room in the fridge for the beer and it’s a little bewildering but also inspiring, the audacity of Octavia barging into someone else’s house and commandeering the kitchen.

“Is that a gun in your pants or are you happy to see us?” Octavia cocks an eyebrow, the same irritating trick she inherited from her mother, and glances at the gun sticking out of Clarke’s waistband. Even her boyfriend cracks a smile over his beer.

“Shit!” Clarke swears again and pulls the gun to safety. “Your mom forced it on me. Give me a minute to put it away and I’ll help with...” She gestures in the general direction of the groceries lining her counter.

Octavia’s eyebrow rises even higher. “I’m making dinner, Clarke,” Octavia says all matter of fact, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Go put away your gun, then come help me with the pasta.”

The blood drains from Clarke’s face and her fingers tighten around the gun in her hands. “Anything but lasagna, okay?” She’ll never forget the scene on Raven’s driveway, the red tomato sauce mingling with Myles’ blood. 

“Mac and cheese, okay?” Her teasing tone has been replaced with sympathy and Octavia’s smile is kind. “Go,” she says gently. “We’ll handle dinner.”

It’s almost thirty minutes before Clarke comes back, after she’s hidden the gun in her nightstand and washed her hands repeatedly to remove any traces of gunpowder residue, after she’s taken a series of deep breaths until she remembers who she is. It’s just a precaution, a means of defending herself, but she can’t stop staring at the pine drawers on her side of the bed. 

She retreats to the kitchen before it drives her insane, finds Raven there, arguing with Octavia about how much cheese to add, and Kyle rinsing the noodles while Lincoln chops vegetables for a salad.

“I didn’t realize we were having company,” she says, wishes she were wearing something other than the dusty jeans and tank from target practice.

“I didn’t either,” Raven says pointedly, but Kyle swats her behind before she can say more.

“Clarke suffered a trauma, Reyes,” he reminds her. “She should have people around.”

Raven mutters under her breath about Blakes in her house but doesn’t protest further, although she does insist on adding cayenne pepper to the cheese sauce. “Everything’s better with a little kick,” she says and Octavia mumbles something under her own breath. “I didn’t hear you, Blake. You wanna say that a little louder?” Raven snaps, but without heat, igniting the same stupid argument that’s raged since Octavia beat her in a drag race the summer she turned thirteen. Raven had been horrified to lose; Clarke had been horrified that she actually competed against a _child_. Arkadia, she’d thought, already feeling the itch to run.

“Ignore them,” Clarke tells Kyle and steals a pepper from the cutting board. “I’m Clarke,” she says to the muscled mass of tattoos taking up half the space in the kitchen.

“Lincoln,” he says, continues chopping tomatoes with an efficiency that would make Aurora swoon. 

“How can I help?” she asks but the various cooks in her kitchen ignore her, so she takes a beer from the fridge and takes a seat on the back steps, where Bellamy finds her a few minutes later.

“Hey,” he says and sits down beside her, beer in hand. 

“Hey,” she exhales, already feeling better just from hearing his voice.

“How was your day?”

“Your mom took me shooting.” 

He takes a sip of his beer. “Really.”

“Really. Turns out I’m not such a bad shot.”

He chuckles lightly. “So how was it?” 

She presses closer into his side. “Amazing. Terrifying.” She represses a shudder. “The gun’s in my nightstand. It’s loaded, but the safety’s on.” She represses another shudder. “I hope I never have to use it.”

“You won’t, but just in case, I’m glad it’s there.”

Clarke thinks she is too, but she doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, the illegal weapon she’s storing in the same drawer as her vibrator. She makes another mental note to pick up a lockbox tomorrow. John Blake’s journal flits through her mind, but she has enough on her plate and the sunset is lovely, the air is cool, and Bellamy’s warm and solid at her side. The past can wait for another day, especially when the future looks so beautiful.

They’re still watching the sky when Octavia calls them inside for dinner, and a star shoots across the horizon, a bright white spark arcing through the inky blue night. Clarke wonders if it’s too late to make wish – for her father’s killers to pay, for Myles’ death to mean something, for all the people she loves to stay safe and whole and _alive_ – but it’s gone before she has the chance, a thin whisper of shimmering dust. For a moment, tears prick her eyes for another thing that she’s lost, another chance gone to make things right, but then Bellamy’s helping her to her feet and she can hear Raven and Kyle’s laughter through the open door and she blinks the tears away and snuggles into Bellamy’s side. There are still things she wants but when it comes down to what matters, she has everything she needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, thank you for the well wishes. I had my surgery, spent a few days recovering, and I'm now mostly back to normal life. It's amazing. Second, this chapter can be subtitled #JusticeForIrisWest, because much as I love "The Flash," I hate how the boys are keeping secrets from Iris and acting like she's a little lady that can't handle the truth. Blech. If she can attend grad school full time and hold down the fort at a Pulitzer Prize winning newspaper, she can handle Barry's secret. But I digress…after an interlude at the cabin, this chapter returns to the real world and the aftermath of both Myles' death and Bellarke's reunion. As always, thank you so much for the wonderful comments and feedback. Enjoy.

**Author's Note:**

> So many things happening here. 1). I’ve been wanting to write a SoA AU since the summer when I basically mainlined the first five seasons and become completely obsessed with the lives of SAMCRO. 2). Tara Knowles was an amazing character that was robbed of the ending she deserved. 3). After over a decade of fanfiction (yes, I’m old), I’m itching to write some original fiction and this is good practice, taking established characters and setting but crafting my own story around it. 4). You don’t need to know anything about “Sons of Anarchy” to understand the fic, although fans of the show will notice references and a terminology. 5). Updates really will happen once a week. I’m starting a new job Monday *and* having back surgery in two weeks, so my time will be limited and updates will be less frequent. If you’ve gotten this far and still want to continue reading, thanks! I’m really looking forward to your comments and feedback. This kind of fic is new for me. Title courtesy of M83. Enjoy.


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